


Katabasis

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Series: In Homage to Theoxenia [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: A Long Winded Redemption Arc, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, As You Can Tell - Neither I Nor FFXIV Know Greek, Emet-Selch needs therapy, Enemies to Lovers, G'raha Needs Boundaries, Gen, In Which Emet-Selch's Nostalgia Glasses are Gently Taken and Violently Smashed, M/M, Mild Body and Medical Horror, Named Female Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), On God Bro We Gon Get Them Some Happiness, Other, Slow Burn in the Third Degree, Suicidal Thoughts and Ideation, Technically Pre-Slash But Not Really, The Scions Unionize and Demand Assurance of Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 104,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: The Crystal Exarchmeantto summon champions to aid the Warrior of Light in their last stand against Emet-Selch. He did not expect the spell to go so awry that he and the others would wake up in an Amaurot that was alive and well, secure in its blissful ignorance of any impending Doom.Truthfully? They'd woken to worse.Somehow, that didn't make him feel better about it.
Relationships: Background Urianger Augurelt/Thancred Waters, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Series: In Homage to Theoxenia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859977
Comments: 48
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **!! EXTENSIVE SHADOWBRINGERS 5.0 SPOILERS !!**
> 
> Hello and welcome to this long enemies-to-lovers/ redemption fic masquerading as a vaguely plotty time travel AU!
> 
> If Emet/G'raha is your usual cup of tea, drink heartily, friend!! If not, I hope this fic convinces you otherwise. :] Either way, I promise that despite all the bumps and bruises it takes to get there, this fic will have a happy ending.
> 
> This is the official beginning of "Theoxania," which will have two main parts (Katabasis and Anabasis), though the 5+1 Fic serves a prequel and set-up. Katabasis begins immediately before Hades' Trial (Dying Gasp). I also apologize in advance for any lore or term mess-ups! I tried my best but as someone raised on Dr. Who and FFVII, I probably got distracted with the fun thing over the consistent thing.
> 
> Lastly! Because this was written before 5.3 came out and contains heavily self-indulgent theorizing on Amaurot and the Doom's origins, it's unlikely to match up with whatever shenanigans the Amaurotines and Elidibus pulled before, during or after the actual Final Days. 
> 
> **Edit, wrt 5.3:** the Fourteenth’s name and circumstances weren’t known when I wrote this fic, and now that it’s all been revealed in canon... well, the name/job choice definitely turned out incorrect in the funniest way! Please approach with good humor and forget everything 5.3 taught us. :P 
> 
> Maaassive thank you to [Jackaloping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackaloping) for being a best buddy and a best beta, and also for contributing art! This fic wouldn't have been possible without all the brainstorming and geeking about Amaurot, Emet & G'raha.
> 
> Without further ado -- please enjoy! :D

“Emet-Selch?”

Hythlodaeus waited three seconds outside the Architect’s main office, but quickly found he would be waiting far longer if he did not take matters into his own hands. Sure enough, upon opening the door, he discovered his friend sound asleep at his desk. How Hades managed to nap on the most uncomfortable surfaces with naught but his own arms for a pillow, he would likely never know.

Thinking privacy best for Hades’ inevitably ungraceful awakening, Hythlodaeus shut the door behind him as he headed into the sparse office. 

A smile on his face, he reached across the desk to give his friend’s shoulder a gentle push.

Feeling him awaken slowly as if from a deep sleep, Hythlodaeus could not help but laugh. “Slacking on the job, Hades? I should report you to personnel management. Or, worse, Elidibus himself.”

Hades lifted his head from the makeshift pillow of his arms. His mask hid his eyes, but Hythlodaeus knew him well enough to know the Herculean effort that went into him keeping them open. Hades’ soul unfurled more leisurely and tiredly than ever before, which would have caused Hythlodaeus some alarm if he did not know his friend had been working himself to the bone to meet the latest project’s deadline. That Hades found the project in a comfortable enough state to slumber through was, truly, a good sign.

“I wouldn’t have woken you, but the matter is…” Hythlodaeus put his hand to the back of his hood-covered neck, rubbing absently as he dug for the correct word, “... peculiar. It would be easiest to show you, if you’re awake enough now?”

“A peculiar matter,” Hades echoed, sounding as if he were still caught in a dream; his thoughts clearly did not move quickly.

Hythlodaeus nodded. “Yes, very peculiar. But I-- didn't mean to be so abrupt. You are clearly exhausted.”

And he was, Hythlodaeus noticed then. The familiar soul of his friend brushed against him felt warped and worn in a way it never had before. It curled around him with the fervor of a cat around its long-gone owner’s legs, pretending at lazy but nonetheless seeping contentment. 

Discomfort washed over Hythlodaeus at the abrupt contact and clear disregard for his soul’s boundaries, but he tried to pay his friend the benefit of the doubt and not pull back too harshly. It must have been the deadline stress, he rationalized. There were many matters handled exclusively by the Convocation. Perhaps Hades had been involved in one recently, and that was why he hadn’t told Hythlodaeus of it.

“Very,” Hades admitted, although he then sat straighter in his chair. “What peculiar matter do you speak of this time?”

What a strange thing to say. He had never before taken himself directly to Hades’ office without a formal invitation.

He again found himself pushing down the unease that grew from his discomfort--which too grew, as Hades had not yet drawn himself back into his own soul’s boundaries. “A concept has gone awry on the edge of the capital. Although, _awry_ is a small term for the large problem it poses.”

“Let me guess, it was Lahabrea’s concept?”

An odd and very wrong guess. Hythlodaeus shook his head. “Investigations into its creator are still pending. None have come forward to claim it.”

“Hm. And why does this concern the Bureau of the Architect?”

“It’s,” Hythlodaeus paused, tilting his head as he considered what exactly he had seen, “architectural in nature.”

Hades frowned at him. Urgency did not fill the air. If Hythlodaeus had to put a name to the emotion he felt from his friend, it would be _light bafflement_.

That was fair, though. Hades had just woken from a deep sleep, and clearly had other, more important matters than a rogue concept on his mind.

If only that rogue concept were a simple matter of dissipating aether or disassembling machinery.

“It will be easier if I simply show you,” Hythlodaeus repeated. 

When his friend nodded, he buried his misgivings about Hades’ state far from Hades’ awareness and focused instead on the task given to him by Investigations. 

Extending his memory of the massive blue construct to Hades, he marveled again at its mass and absurdity. It was indeed architectural in nature, although the sheer, unfocused power and the group of soul-embedded concepts that tumbled out of its front doors made it an awfully unique problem. That it had appeared so suddenly and so brazenly on the edge of Amaurot, too, was beyond perplexing.

Nabriales, the Investigator, had immediately declared only the strongest sorcerer would have been able to craft such a construct so quickly; and, conversely, only the poorest luck that seven souls had been captured in its making. While everyone agreed with his assessment, everyone also knew that the sorcerer to fit the description would be exclusively Convocation members.

No one dared propose, however, that a Convocation member recklessly Created a crystal tower on the edge of the capital, least of all in front of Nabriales.

At least it hadn’t landed on anything living.

Assured his depiction was as accurate as memory could be, he turned to his friend with mind and body. Hades persisted in draping himself about his soul as if he owned the thing, but it seemed an unconscious act of an overworked mind, and so Hythlodaeus continued to allow it. Similarly discomforting was that he found Hades to be as sluggish in reacting to the news as he had been in waking up. 

Hades obviously recognized the construct and the mobile concepts, but continued to display no alarm.

“You know this tower, then?” Hythlodaeus did not want to cast doubt on Hades’ control, but--

“Yes,” he responded, despondent, “although they’ve certainly changed it, I had a hand in building it.”

Well!

Alright, then!

He drew himself back to the present, and made no efforts to hide his surprise. “When was this? That’s one big project to keep from the public. Did you know it would manifest as it did?”

“I had no idea how it would be used, and, truthfully, I still don’t.”

Surprise spiked into shock.

 _That_ grabbed Hades’ attention, although urgency remained absent. 

“Let us go see to it, I suppose?” Hades offered. He sounded and felt as if he very much did not want to do that, but would do so if Hythlodaeus asked.

Hythlodaeus had been sent by Nabriales specifically _to_ ask. Nabriales seemed to think Emet-Selch was not one to attend to his duties without encouragement. The opinion confirmed for Hythlodaeus that the Office of the Investigator rarely crossed paths with the Bureau of the Architect. Fond as Hades was of complaining, he had never been one for slacking off when it really mattered. He’d been on the Convocation long enough that his fellow members should have recognized as much. 

Perhaps there was more to Hades’ exhaustion that the Convocation knew of?

… No, that didn’t seem right.

Something else was off about his friend. Something very, very big.

Unfortunately, they had a big, big aether-infused tower that needed deconstructing. 

Hythlodaeus smothered his _are you well?_ before it escaped him. Such questions put Hades in the mindset that he needed to grumble louder but speak less, and by the sounds of it, Emet-Selch had much explaining to do. 

Instead he simply said, “Yes, let’s,” and opened a shared portal to the construct’s entrance.

**. . .**

“At last you arrive, Emet-Selch. Thank you for your aid in fetching him, Hythlodaeus.”

“However I can help, Nabriales. He was not too difficult to find, as the Emet-Selch’s office has remained in the same location for centuries.”

“You’re as amusing as ever. Well, the delay worked in your favor, as now we have a few findings worth sharing. The tower itself is unlike anything we’ve seen. It’s older than its sudden appearance suggests, too. The interior is riddled with broken and burst aetherial veins. The whole place is flooded with wild astral energies, which we can only assume is by mistake rather than design. All the same, we’ve ordered a search through the administrative records for any similar concept designs, approved or denied, in the last two decades. Considering the delay in processing anything through _that_ Bureau, we’ve proceeded to set up our own stations within the first two levels.”

“How many levels are there?”

“The schematics are too garbled to say. More than reasonably necessary. I’ve been informed that until the internal relays are repaired and its aetherial spills contained, most are accessible primarily by stairs.”

“Truly? Dreadful.”

The tower situation was an unequivocal mess. Wild magics dripped from its crystalline walls. The lower levels were a mako-flooded reactor, complete with a smoking wreck of incomprehensible machina. If whatever functioned as the dam holding its reckless might back broke, the shockwave would be enough to wipe three districts from Amaurot’s map. It needed removing. It needed a careful, cautious hand, as its removal was likely to cause as mysterious a problem as its arrival.

It did not need the crowd it gathered. Overgrown eyesore it was, the public flocked to its edges, milling in open wonder and awe at the edges of the taped-off entrance. 

The public’s attention was a problem. The seven soul-embedded concepts they found huddled in the main foyer were far worse.

All were in rough shape. One in particular occupied a body half-infected with the tower’s untamed crystal, and had hovered on the edge of a painful death until Nabriales ordered an aide, Medea, to place the creature in a healing stasis. It may have been more merciful to let the thing pass without interference, but its cohorts’ distress spiked terribly when they attempted to separate the dying one from the rest.

The ruckus to follow had posed an actual threat against Soteria. As the newest member of his elite investigations team, Soteria hadn’t the field experience necessary to understand the importance of maintaining a shield when interacting with an unsecured, chaotic concept. She simply reached in to pull the most wounded creature from its group, lest its crystalline affliction or agonizing death infect the others. She did not see the metallic blade swung for her hands until its edge cut through her gloves and sliced her palm near in two.

Nabriales _had_ seen the tension, fortunately. He’d thrown a shield on her before the blade could cut all the way through, and forced binding paralysis on the attacker immediately after. 

Curiously, the concept ended up being strong enough to speak and struggle through the bindings, though it toppled when it attempted to take a threatening step toward him. 

The sight of their fellow falling riled the other five, much to Nabriales’ displeasure. He wasted no time in binding them as well.

Soteria had stuttered gratitude for his aide and apologies for her carelessness as she’d detached herself awkwardly from the blade embedded in her hand. Medea stepped in to heal her, closing the wound instantaneously. She reported something peculiar about the wound, that a ball resembling a bullet had been fired and stuck with no small amount of resiliency. Curious despite himself, Nabriales took the blade for later examination. 

Contemplating the concepts -- six wounded and bound but fiercely struggling, one laying upon the ground and leaking red blood from an alarming number of cuts and burns on its flesh -- Medea had the bright idea of offering to heal the dying one rather than separate them.

It was a good test of the creatures’ ability to understand them. Unlikely though it had been, the concepts proved themselves capable of speech and basic reasoning. The shortest in red gave voice to active protest, citing distrust and disgust and fears that felt _personal_ despite being incomprehensible, but the shortest in blue cut it off to accept the offer. 

Medea obligingly placed the crystalline one in a healing stasis. As she did, she explained that it would wake in a much more stable state, and that she would be happy to undo the stasis if the six found her words to be untruthful. Reluctantly and likely due more to exhaustion than agreement, the six at last ceased their struggles against their bindings.

Medea always had a way with the more cognizant concepts. Nabriales appreciated her approach, even if it occasionally took too long for his liking.

All that nonsense occurred within the first five minutes of Nabriales and his team’s arrival into the tower’s main room. He dreaded what further surprises awaited them within the mysterious structure.

Ideally, the concepts would be able to tell them before their souls were returned to the lifestream. More realistically, the concepts had no idea what had summoned them into being. 

Based on their attachment to one another, it was possible they had existed within the tower for some time prior to its unnatural relocation to Amaurot. To what purpose an individual would need seven such specifically-designed models, Nabriales could only guess. That would be the Analyst’s forte, not his. Until she had a moment to look into their makings, he would take it upon himself to ensure their safety. It was unfortunate that meant he had to take them outside the tower with him and thus into the public’s eye, but he was unsure what the exposure to the tower’s energies would do to them. The one closest to dying appeared the worst infected, after all. 

Although the majority of the Convocation would undoubtedly be involved before all was said and done, understanding the tower seemed the largest priority. 

Nabriales sent for Emet-Selch with that in mind. As he expected, sending Hythlodaeus to do the fetching ensured the Architect's timely arrival. Unexpected was his clear and obvious distraction until he spied the concepts, whereupon he fixated sharply upon them; and, more alarmingly, the peculiar, exhausted tilt to his soul. Even more unexpected was Hythlodaeus remaining at the scene, and largely doing the speaking for him.

Something was clearly off. Perhaps it was that project Elidibus had given him, though Nabriales knew the shape of it and couldn’t fathom how restoring the Bucolic District’s outdated irrigation systems would put him in such a state. Nonetheless, it apparently had. Out of courtesy, Nabriales quietly walled himself off from his fellow Convocation member. They were not so close outside of work for anything like a _what happened to you?_ to be appropriate, especially in such a public place.

There were also more important matters to discuss.

For instance: “We’ve identified four distinct signatures that combined to bring the construct into being. The primary signifier originates from the tower itself. The other three will take time to discern. Two are Amaurotine in nature. The last is almost too faint to make out; we were lucky to isolate it so quickly before it was overtaken by the tower’s power.”

Hythlodaes spoke quietly. “I can’t imagine why two of our own would bring this into our midst.”

“Neither can I.” A pause. “Have you nothing to say, Emet-Selch?”

The Architect looked not at them or the tower, but at the small, soul-bearing creatures. He had to crane his neck to do so. It would have been easier for him to crouch, but he seemed rooted to the spot with whatever he saw in the little concepts.

It was singularly rude, and odd besides. Nabriales was about to bid again for his attention-- this was why he sent Hythlodaeus to fetch him!-- when Emet-Selch finally spoke.

“You’ve said nothing I could not gather myself.” Hythlodaeus covered his mouth with a hand as Nabriales bristled. Emet-Selch acknowledged his friend’s surprised amusement with a tilt of his head, but continued to watch the seven concepts. “What of them?”

Nabriales glanced at the fragile creatures. Their souls flickered fiercely, reeking of desperation and despair. “As much an accident as the tower’s creation, I’m sure. We must return the souls to the lifestream before they harm themselves.”

“Absolutely not.”

A pause.

Hythlodaeus dropped his hand to peer at Emet-Selch. Nabriales wasted no such time. “ _No?_ On what basis?”

“Your investigation has scarcely begun.” At last, a fire lit under Emet-Selch’s feet. He spoke with more presence, the whole of him abruptly and inanely invested in the fate of the unknown concepts. “There’s no telling the concepts’ importance to the tower. I will not have them simply destroyed. You may set me back years.”

“We will record all they might tell us prior to releasing their souls, of course. Beyond that, surely such limited concepts have nothing to share that differs from what we may find on our own.”

“What if they control the construct?”

“Then we will take the pilot’s seat from them,” Nabriales said, uncertain of the path Emet-Selch meant to walk, “and unburden them of the unfortunate life they have been trapped in. Do you not sense their horror? They are overwhelmed by this world.”

Even Emet-Selch couldn’t deny the stench of terror in the air. For such small things, they certainly felt strongly. 

He said, so aloof as to be alarming, “Overwhelmed may be putting it lightly.”

Not believing what he heard, Nabriales allowed fire into his own voice. “That's recisely why they must be returned to the lifestream as soon as possible!”

The outburst attracted the attention of their crowd. Murmurs broke out as the by-standers inquired after who among their number heard the discussion to raise a Convocation member’s ire. Fortunately, it sounded as if the answer were _zero_ , but Nabriales was not fond of the negative attention in the least. 

He gestured for his aide to leave her watch over the concepts and attend to the curious citizens, which she did reluctantly. She’d hoped to hear more of the argument herself, he was sure. 

“Do you recognize these concepts?”

Emet-Selch’s fingers twitched, his shoulders jumping the slightest centimeter.

Hythlodaeus, the question asker, waited his shock out. 

It took almost too long for Nabriales. Finally Emet-Selch said, “I recognize they do not belong in the Underworld just yet,” as he again craned his neck to look down on the concepts. “And that they, as part and parcel with the tower, belong under my jurisdiction.”

Nabriales noticed then that the concepts stared back. Their souls glowed brighter for a brief flash, as if to echo Emet-Selch’s words that they yet desired life.

But underneath the persistent embers was confusion, and fear, and hostility beyond that of even a trapped, dying beast. It was no wonder: they had to be so confused at their lot, stunted and ill-fitting as their bodies were to their potential. The cut of their souls resembled an Amaurotine’s, Nabriales thought. He was no expert in aetherology, so he would not say as much aloud, but something about the shape filled him with unease at seeing them without an Amaurotine’s mind or body.

All it meant was that they belonged in the lifestream.

How Emet-Selch didn’t agree, he couldn’t fathom.

Nabriales turned to Hythlodaeus in a bid that he, at least, prioritized sanity. “Do you not agree that the concepts should be left intact? We do not know their design, only that they do not belong in this world. Their pain will likely grow the longer they are kept from the lifestream.” 

Hythlodaeus bent his neck, too, and contemplated the concepts. Under his polite veneer of contemplation, Nabriales sensed he was more unsure than he let on.

“Emet-Selch’s instincts are rarely wrong on matters such as these,” Hythlodaeus finally said. “Perhaps they should be maintained here until we are certain of the tower’s origin.”

Nabriales frowned and thought to argue the ethics-- but then he stopped himself, and simply grit out, “Very well. I concede to your logic. But I leave them to your care, Emet-Selch.”

“As I’d assumed,” Emet-Selch murmured, which deepened Nabriales’ displeasure.

“There is one other thing,” he said, if only to get a foothold back on the conversation, “that I believe prudent to mention if the Architect will be overseeing operations upon the investigation’s conclusion.”

Emet-Selch didn’t even look at him!

He simply said, voice still a murmur, “And that is?”

“We have detected that there had been use of…” 

Here Nabriales hesitated. After a brief moment, he placed a discrete spell of silence around the three of them to ensure none others heard. 

“Use of…?” Hythlodaeus prodded.

“Although they had been previously theoretical,” Nabriales said, hedging all the way as he inwardly flinched at what _exactly_ he thought he detected, “and we will require expertise to confirm, we are very likely looking at the first recorded use of time gates.”

The concepts’ souls, again, flared, like a teaspoon of oil thrown upon a candle. Nabriales hadn’t even noticed he’d included them in the silenced area.

“Well.” Emet-Selch intoned, again too blank for Nabriales’ comfort. “Isn’t that interesting.” 

Hythlodaeus stared at him, perhaps sensing something Nabriales was not privy to due to a mental or other link. Rude as it was to seal out a party to the conversation, the two were awfully close, so it would not be too surprising. 

Silence passed between the three of them.

Then Hythlodaeus flinched, and Emet-Selch laughed--

And laughed.

And _laughed._

“I thought this a strange dream,” he said between gasps, all but bent in two with his guffawing, “but, no. At the very end, they managed to surprise me!” 

“What is happening?” Nabriales demanded of Hythlodaeus, officially unnerved by his fellow’s behavior. Emet-Selch, to his utmost alarm, continued his cackling. “What is he speaking of? Why is he acting like this?”

“I--” Hythlodaeus cut himself off and shook his head once, twice, “-- think this has been an overwhelming day for more than just the errant souls. A moment, please.”

Anyone else, Nabriales would have denied. But it was a well-known fact within the Convocation that Hythlodaeus had been the first pick for Emet-Selch, and so was more than capable of dealing with the second-best. More importantly, the outburst made obvious that he’d set a silence spell around them, and he could already see the gossip and media storm to follow if he didn’t immediately engage in a little crowd-control.

“Take it inside the tower. There’s a side room with stacks of traditional books. Its aetherial currents are fairly stable, so we’ve let it be.”

“Thank you,” Hythlodaeus said as he moved to his friend’s side, “we won’t be long.”

Emet-Selch’s laughter had begun to peter out, but the hunch of his shoulders resembled the tension of a string about to snap. 

It wasn’t a visage easily reconciled with the reserved, prudent Emet-Selch that Nabriales knew.

The only respect he could think to pay to his fellow Convocation member was to leave him with enough privacy to regain his dignity. He took his leave from the duo’s side, and invested himself in drawing the crowd’s attention away from their escape into the tower. He himself did not want to watch it. 

A less charitable individual -- Emet-Selch, for instance -- would have accused him of fleeing. Objectively, it would be difficult to deny.

Because he dared not glance behind him, he did not see how the tension remained between the concepts and Emet-Selch. He did not see how Emet-Selch dismissed the binding upon them with nary a word. He especially did not see how Emet-Selch allowed one to pick up the crystalline one before he ushered them back into the tower, Hythlodaeus a concerned shadow in their wake. If he had, he might have tried to stop them-- and get Emet-Selch to, at the least, see a medical examiner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** discussion of the Doom is a parallel to discussing a global pandemic which threatens the world’s population with extinction. So! If you’re not feeling that, that’s very understandable!! Take care!
> 
> This warning continues for the rest of the fic.

“Exarch? Can you hear me?”

 _Of course I can,_ he wanted to reply. _Must you shout? My skull is already trying to split in two!_

What he actually said and what it sounded like, he didn’t know. A strangled cat, maybe. A drowning frog, possibly.

“... I think that was a--? Oh! That was definitely something.” 

He sounded quieter than a dying animal, then. Funny, as that captured exactly how he felt: all prickly fire and itchy pain, his ribs crushing his lungs with every breath as though an entire amaro had nested upon his chest. Tongue too large for his mouth, throat scratching as if he’d swallowed sand as he tried again to say, _Yes, yes, I’m awake, I’m here._

“Urianger, he’s waking! Exarch, please, stay still.”

He’d rather crawl out of his own skin, actually. That sounded much nicer an experience.

The world came into blurry view as he forced open his eyes: blinding light, first, which inspired a deep, reflexive fear; then, the cool blue of his reading room’s ceiling, and before it, a fuzzy, red-topped shape that was undeniably Ryne; and, soon, he found himself breathing a little easier.

Only to ruin the progress as he tried to sit up. 

“Ouch,” he said, empathetically, and with no small amount of pride that he’d managed a recognizable word. Ryne’s fuzzy outline flinched at the word and how he fell back, her head whipping back toward him.

Beyond her, another fuzzy shape loomed. 

“He hears, but does not listen,” it said, proving itself to be Urianger, “and so we can be rest assured of his recovery.”

“The Ascian wasn’t lying?”

“It appears not.”

“Color me surprised,” muttered another suddenly appearing shape. 

Thancred, on Ryne’s other side. G’raha started to feel distinctly surrounded. He blinked his eyes to clear them, but found it a futile method. Determined to clear them before more people joined, he tried to move his least-hurting limb-- which, of course, was the crystal one--and rub his eyes clear.

As if aware of his thoughts, when he finally cleared his gaze of wetness and blurriness, he saw not only Thancred, Ryne and Urianger, but Y’shtola and the twins, too. All had a look of great expectation on their faces, as well as excitement and relief and concern and-- it was too much too fast. G’raha wanted to shrink back from their attention, but unfortunately, the ground did not oblige him.

Ryne’s smile stretched yalms wide. Thancred had shadows at the corners of his eyes that bespoke his stress, but any shadow between his brows lightened. Urianger put a green-glowing hand on his shoulder while Y’shtola, standing behind him, commented quietly about the growing strength and stability of his aether. Alisaie and Alphinaud, a hand’s breadth behind her, assured each other that _they_ had known he would recover, but that Alisaie apparently owed Alphinaud for being right about the time the healing stasis would take to cure him. Alisaie called Alphinaud out for knowing just as much about Ascian-summoned _healing stases_ as the rest of them, but it was with a smile. 

Instead of their overwhelming attention and the tingling in his body as Urianger’s magic eased his aches, he focused on putting words to his growing confusion at their situation. 

For one, why were they in the Tower? They had been fighting. He remembered Amaurot, burning. He had walked its streets to reach them, and found himself more than a little outmatched for the horrors within. He remembered finding them on an impossible platform floating among the stars, the planet below alight with suffering. He remembered scraping together the remaining vestiges of his strength to summon aid for the Warrior of Light to defeat their maddened, unrecognizable foe-- and then, rushing blackness, as all his energies were spent in that final bid for victory.

Yes, he remembered Amaurot very well. He did not remember leaving it.

The Tower itself felt _strange._ On returning to it after any time away, it tended to soothe his exhaustion with jubilant welcome -- an emotion attributed more to how greedily it healed him rather than any actual _compassion_. Now, though, restless energy stirred its air. Like a wolverine with a thorn in its paw, it bristled and jumped at G’raha’s presence; where his skin met crystal itched more and more as his aching pains receded. He would need to connect more directly with it to know the cause. By the impulse in the back of his mind that he had come to attribute to his awareness of the Tower’s state, he would need to connect soon.

Fortunately, his staff laid right next to him. He grasped it, pulling it into his lap as if it would shield him from the Tower’s formless stress and their situation’s alarming uncertainty.

But before that, another thought: with all Scions gathered around him, the Warrior of Light’s absence was a missing step on an otherwise perfect staircase. 

And, just as with the missing step, G’raha felt himself stumbling.

“Where is our...?”

The Scions’ relief crumpled. It was far worse to watch than their excitement at his waking.

“Thy wounds are nearly healed,” Urianger said, calm as the others drew back. “Thou should remain still as the process completes.”

That wasn’t the answer G’raha had been seeking.

Thancred was the only one to meet his gaze, but he provided nothing more than a tight-lipped frown and shrug. G’raha felt his stomach sink and, at the same time, a vicious need to be on his feet.

He struggled to right himself to at least a proper sitting position. Urianger allowed him that, though he did not take his hands from his shoulder. 

Ryne had been crouched next to him; at him sitting up, she sat as well. The others remained standing, which unfortunately made him feel very small.

“We’re not sure,” Y’shtola said then. She had a curiously blank look on her face-- one that meant she was in waters unknown, and thinking fast to try to solve them. “We tried looking for her, but we haven’t gotten far.”

“She’s out there,” Thancred said, firm. “If we’re here, there’s no way she isn’t.”

G’raha blinked. “What do you mean, you haven’t gotten far?”

Apparently satisfied with his work, Urianger ceased his magics and removed his hand. “Tell me of any renewed pains,” he demanded in the kind way of all medics. He also seemed resolute in giving his fellow Scions time to answer G’raha’s question, as most of them had frozen or looked to their hands rather than at him. 

G’raha gave him a nod, “I will, but there are none now, thank you,” unhappy with appearing ungrateful but not willing to be distracted.

Equally unwilling -- or simply annoyed at their idling -- Y’shtola broke the tension. “We’re not where we were. Or, quite possibly, we are _where_ we were, but not _when_.”

What.

“This Tower is apparently too fond of jumping through time,” Alisaie groused, leaping past G’raha’s sudden wash of _fear._ “So at the slightest nudge, it did it again. Only this time, it threw us back more than a few years.”

“Or even a century,” Urianger murmured.

Y’shtola shook her head. “What happened to draw us back was nothing like a slight nudge.”

“We still don’t know what exactly happened,” Alphinaud cut in. “I believe you intended to summon aid for Cahsi. Instead, your -- well, the Crystal Tower’s -- power mixed with Emet-Selch’s and the Warrior of Light’s, and there was a rending of sorts in, ah...”

“Space and time,” Alisaie supplied.

“So it seems.”

That explained the Tower’s prickly restlessness. It was re-orienting itself. Jumping from the Source to the First had been little more than a hop across a puddle. From the First to--

Wait.

“-- We’ve gone back in time to the _original_ Amaurot?”

No.

“So it seems,” Alphinaud said again, though far more uncertain.

“Like I said,” Y’shtola sighed, “we haven’t gotten far. We haven’t had the chance to leave the Tower yet.”

“We woke to an entire gathering of Amaurotines within the Ocular,” Thancred explained, his arms crossed and his head turned so that he could glare over his shoulder at something G’raha did not see, “and they’re far more substantial than the shades we encountered before.”

“Thancred had his gunblade taken by one. The one called Nabriales, no less.” At G’raha’s blank look, Y’shtola elaborated, “An Ascian we encountered before. He worked with Lahabrea, if you recall our stories about him.” 

G’raha did. He made sure not to let his gaze linger on Thancred’s tense posture, or the way his fingers curled tighter into his sleeves. 

“Nabriales didn’t survive that first encounter,” Thancred muttered.

“Yes, well. He more than survived this one.” Y’shtola crossed her arms, too. “Don’t worry. We’ll retrieve your gunblade soon.”

“Or at the least, we will craft a new one once we have returned to whence we came,” Urianger said. 

“I can make more bullets,” Ryne added, her eyes glued to every sign of Thancred’s discomfort.

Thancred did not cease his glaring over his shoulder. Feeling less like he would tip over and shatter into a million pieces, G’raha peered around his legs to see the subject of his hostility.

As it turned out: subject _s_. Two massive, dark-cloaked figures stood on the other end of what quickly became apparent was his favored reading room. The room being smaller than the Tower’s usual, the _other end_ meant they stood only a few meager yalms away. Their forms still produced a faint white glow, especially at their robes’ openings, but they were undeniably far more substantial than the shades which haunted the Amaurot G’raha wandered through. Although they faced away from the Scions, the edges of a white and a red mask were visible beneath their hoods as they spoke to one another.

Their words matched the strange echo and cadence of the shades’ in the make-believe Amaurot. And yet, as those around him fell quiet and their words alone occupied the space, they were as comprehensible as if they spoke plain Eorzean. 

“I’d been hoping you would tell me the truth after… that,” the white-masked one said, their voice echoing in the silence.

“I am,” the red-masked one replied, sounding distinctly miffed despite their alien tone. “This Tower is technically of Allagan make. I, as I told you--”

“-- Created the Allagan Empire.”

It raised its arms as if in defeat. “Yes.”

“In the future.”

“In _a_ future,” they-- _he_ , G’raha knew, as instantly and well as he knew the back of his flesh hand-- said, far, far, quieter, “that will not come to pass.”

“A future you have not told me the details of, beyond that you helped engineer this hulking tower and know those small beings.”

Silence. 

The Ascians remained ignorant, willful or otherwise, of the seven pairs of eyes on them.

After a tense pause, the white-masked one continued to speak. “I wish I believed you were lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“I know,” they replied, almost sad, although their back seemed to straighten in determination, “I just wish I didn’t.”

A pause. 

“Do you still wish me to--?”

“-- Rest? Yes, you clearly need it. I need it, after hearing your impossible story.” Ignoring his companion’s obvious draw-back-and-up in protest, the white mask turned to face them full-on. Their mask was not as plain as the shades’, G’raha saw: the beak rounder, the eye-holes gentle crescents underlined with light red, everything about it a soft curve. “Before then, however, we should really decide what to do with… oh. Hm. Hello?”

“Hello,” Ryne said after a too-long pause wherein both sides of the room gazed at each other. Her voice, quiet as it was, only added to the growing tension.

The white-mask looked toward the figure that was unmistakably Emet-Selch, albeit far taller and with robes far plainer than before. They hesitated as if expecting help.

In a surprising turn, Emet-Selch did, in fact, help.

“Hythlodaeus,” he said, waving a white-gloved hand vaguely in their direction, “pests. Pests, Hythlodaeus.”

“Pests? _Honestly_. What my exceedingly rude friend meant to say was,” the Ascian corrected with a sharp tilt of their head in Emet-Selch’s direction, “it is nice to meet you, ah, little ones. You may call me Hythlodaeus.” 

They took a few steps forward. Stopped. And, finally, crouched, less than a yalm away.

They asked, “What do you go by?” -- heedless of how Emet-Selch stared at their back, and ignoring the way the standing Scions not-so-subtly moved in front of G’raha at their approach.

“Ever the peace-maker,” Emet-Selch muttered.

“Why are you doing this?” Alisaie demanded of him. 

“Doing what?” Hythlodaeus asked, honestly confused. “I can… stand, if you prefer?”

“Not you,” she clarified, jerking her chin toward the actual offender, “ _him._ ”

G’raha wondered the same.

He’d woken in the chair before a desk of an absurdly large office. He’d felt like a child in the thing, his feet unable to reach even the edge with his back to its back. Emet-Selch had towered in his Ascian robes on the other side of the desk, and informed him that they would be reaching an _accord_ about the Tower’s power. He preferred G’raha’s cooperation for efficiency’s sake, he said, but he was not in a position to be picky.

The entire set-up mocked their prior dealings. It stung, beneath his overwhelming concern for the Warrior of Light’s untreated state. It burned, it hurt, it _shamed_ him, falling for a betrayal that had been inevitable from the start.

When Emet-Selch remained silent, Hythlodaeus asked, “And what’s wrong with him?”

“He has plenty of reasons to want us dead.”

“ _Had_ ,” Emet-Selch corrected. Even with the new alien lilt to his words and the fact they only seemed to understand the language because the meaning manifested itself directly in their minds, he sounded as haughty as ever. “No longer. As I made clear to Nabriales, if some of you would recall.”

“Oh, my apologies. He _no longer_ wants us immediately dead. That’s very reassuring.”

Hythlodaeus’s head tilted to the left. “Perhaps we should... take a step back.”

“I agree,” Ryne said. As she stood from her place at Graha’s side, she offered him a hand to help him up, too. He appreciated the gesture more than he could say, though standing gave him a spin of vertigo and he was forced to lean on her and his staff lest he topple over. “My name’s Ryne. That’s Thancred, that’s Y’shtola, Urianger… Alisaie and Alphinaud, and, um, this is the Exarch. It’s nice to meet you, Hythlodaeus, even though I-- I don’t know how or why we’re here.”

“A gap in understanding we all share, little one,” Hythlodaeus assured her. Then, after a beat, “Ryne.”

She gave him a small smile. 

How she kept her composure so well, G’raha wished he knew. They could all learn a thing or two from a youth’s ability to roll with whatever happened around her, maybe.

“I doubt that.” This, from Y’shtola. She held herself painfully still, her expression steely and focused. “No offense meant to you, Hythlodaeus. But your _friend_ \-- our being here is close enough to exactly what he wanted. It’s certainly suspect that he’s managed it without any intent.”

“More than suspect,” Alisaie added.

“I can’t imagine what transpired between all of you prior to your arrival here that gave rise to such a belief or your hostilities,” Hythlodaeus said, and wow, he _was_ quite the peacemaker, “although I’d be happy to learn in the near future.”

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Y’shtola asked, pointed. Sensing, perhaps, that this Ascian-- Amaurotine?--was, in all likelihood, what stood between them and Emet-Selch’s ideas of how to _deal with unwanted problems._ Why Emet-Selch was simply standing and watching in the first place made no sense. “We don’t.”

“That’s just it.” Hythlodaeus raised a hand to the back of his neck, an awkward gesture that translated very well across species. “You don’t, but I’m afraid we are not well equipped to understand or handle the needs of your forms. Before we speak any further, I would like to make sure you are comfortable.”

In collective, they paused.

Y’shtola blinked.

Ryne said, “Oh.”

Alphinaud asked, “Will we be required to stay here in the Tower?”

“Likely so. Until the investigation has eased the public’s fears, at least.”

A few eyes turned toward G’raha. 

He looked back at them, uncertain. “Yes?”

Alisaie looked ready to laugh. The moment’s surreality grew-- and, conversely, the hostility decreased. 

Emet-Selch was still a looming shadow in the room that G’raha refused to look at for too long. But this Hythlodaeus seemed no more threatening than Amaurot’s shades had been, and had the added benefit of knowing about the new world they’d been dragged into. Even better, he seemed willing to speak with them as if they weren’t idiots, which was much more than could be said for every other Ascian G’raha had the ultimate displeasure of meeting. 

The idea of being trapped in the Tower was not a pleasant one, no matter how odd or temporary the cause. He shoved the notion away and focused instead on the fact that they would all, at least, be together; and, should push come to shove, the Scions were not ones to be trapped _anywhere._ As they’d proven atop Mt. Gulg and no matter how much smarter it would be, they were unlikely to leave him behind if they did decide to explore the new world. 

He hoped so, anyway. If they ultimately begrudged him for being the original cause of their unceremonious entrance to a new world, he could not blame them.

“We must needs take stock of the kitchen and other rooms,” Urianger said, “before we may answer your question, Hythlodaeus.”

“That’s fine. Allow me to escort you, if you would. The Office of Investigations has the infamous tendency to collect what is not theirs because it catches their eye.”

“So we have experienced.”

“Ah? Already?”

Urianger glanced to his side, where Thancred shrugged dismissively. Not wanting Hythlodaeus, however helpful he seemed, to know that he lacked his weaponry. Urianger accepted his decision without complaint. “It is no matter. Ryne, Thancred and I will accompany you in our inventory. The Exarch is in no true condition to wander the Tower, and we would not leave him alone here.”

He felt fine enough to walk the Tower’s million stairs, as long as he could take his time and occasionally pause to catch his breath. 

But that, he quickly realized with a glance toward the silent, red-masked shadow in the room, wasn’t the point.

Hythlodaeus graciously did not question their division. “Very well. We--”

“Emet-Selch,” Y’shtola said, voice a velvet-wrapped demand, “if you would stay behind and answer a few of our questions in the meantime.”

“You do so love the chance to explain.” 

G’raha surprised himself by making the comment, but he saw no reason to retract it.

“That doesn’t sound like the best use of tim--” Hythlodaeus started, rising to stand again at his ridiculous and full height.

“Yes.” Emet-Selch cut him off, voice cool as ice. “I believe that would be best.”

Y’shtola nodded. Alisaie folded her arms over her chest, while Alphinaud glanced between his sister and Y’shtola.

Hythlodaeus turned to Emet-Selch, putting himself unintentionally between the Scions and their would-be murderer. A tense moment passed wherein G’raha was sure a conversation they could not hear passed between the two Ascians. Unfortunately, there was no hope of receiving an answer to what that discussion contained.

Whatever it was, it ended with Hythlodaeus accepting their terms. With a few more murmured pleasantries -- managed exclusively by the true Amaurotine, Urianger, and Ryne -- and a _you better be smart about this_ look from Thancred to Y’shtola, the inventory group departed. 

In their wake, silence again descended.

Before it could turn vicious, G’raha tightened his hold on his staff and forced himself to face Emet-Selch head-on.

“You’ll answer us what we ask.”

“I always have.” He sounded vaguely amused. It rankled G’raha’s fur. 

G’raha shook his head. “ _Without_ your games.”

“What makes you think you have the ability to bargain with me, Exarch? Especially here and now?”

“It’s apparent you don’t want Hythlodaeus to know the future that came to pass.” This, from Alphinaud. He’d spread his hands in front of him, palms up. Entreating. “We can promise to maintain that illusion for you while we are here.”

The amusement dropped from Emet-Selch’s voice. _Finally_ , it seemed the Ascian had joined them in the present. “That you believe I truly need all of you alive is laughable.”

“It’s what you told your fellows,” Y’shtola shot back. “They may be a little more concerned after you--”

“-- Have had the chance to collect myself and understand this construct, and found the concepts it arrived with largely superfluous? It would not be a lie.”

“After you have been determined unstable,” Y’shtola finished, refusing to acknowledge the alternative, “which from what we witnessed outside, isn’t too far off.”

Emet-Selch, annoyingly, scoffed. He waved a hand, the familiar dismissive motion at odds with his strange form. “What you witnessed was nothing so grand as that. Nabriales has always been an overeager egotist. You’ve no idea the workings of Amaurotine governance.”

“Then teach us,” Alphinaud insisted. “If we are to be trapped here, we might as well know.”

Emet-Selch considered him.

 _This is no boon,_ G’raha thought. _You are a heartsick fool to think so._

It had been words he’d used to remind himself that he could not, _could not_ turn back the clock and become again the G’raha Tia that had ventured from Sharlayan’s safe walls in search of knowledge. Even if it had been possible to live those years again-- oh, he’d have given his remaining years and all his newfound gifts for it in a heartbeat, yes. He dreamed of it week after week before the Warrior of Light arrived on the First.

But beyond the aching longing and frequent despair, in his more sober moments, he knew: nostalgia lied oh so sweetly. If he’d turned back the clock, if he’d had a chance to do it all again, he himself would have changed too much to do it right. 

It didn’t mean he didn’t understand Emet-Selch’s impulse.

It did mean he had no sympathy.

Even if Emet-Selch did find a way to avert the Doom…

“You’ve kept company of our lowly, broken selves this long,” Y’shtola said, an edge to her voice, “what’s a while more?”

… They couldn’t allow it. 

If it meant playing nice with Emet-Selch and his cohorts, then that was what they had to do.

If only it were so easy to accept as it was to understand.

Emet-Selch said, “I could leave you in this Tower, bound and silenced. It would be a paltry thing. My brethren would even help me, although they would think me cruel for not releasing your souls.”

Y’shtola shrugged, feigning calm acceptance. “You could.”

 _Or you could be better,_ G’raha thought. 

And then banished it as the naively hopeful thought it was. He did not need to embarrass himself further by providing Emet-Selch the benefit of the doubt.

Emet-Selch took the meager five steps necessary to place himself in front of them. They held their ground, although Alisaie’s hand went to her rapier’s hilt. G’raha resisted the urge to take a step back. He knew those eyes, hidden though they were behind the mask, rested on him. He had made clear he would not treat with Emet-Selch when he had been stolen to Amaurot the first time; Emet-Selch must have known he especially would not spill a word if he struck the Scions deaf, dumb, or dead.

He crouched, same as Hythlodaeus had done. Somehow, it was far more patronizing coming from him.

“You’ve provided me the opportunity that I, in all my time and ability, could not.” Sincerity, of a dangerous variety. “Consider me curious about what else you can do. Very well, Scion; ask of me what you will.”

An unstable stalemate formed then. 

Alphinaud, brave diplomat he was, buried well his distaste for this situation, and did.

**. . .**

Unsurprisingly, being in his long-missed home did wonders for Emet-Selch’s disposition.

What they learned matched what they’d witnessed in the shade-filled Amaurot and what he’d told them before. They filled in gaps and reminded themselves of details forgotten thanks to the urgency to be as _prepared as possible_ \-- as well as Emet-Selch’s natural inclination to endlessly talk about his paradise world. That they didn’t need to take long turned out to be a boon, as Hythlodaeus and his mortal wards returned sooner than later.

 _Hythlodaeus was an excellent escort,_ Urianger informed them with the air that he had much more to share once they were away from their unintentional supervisors. _As much as can be learned in one meeting, I believe he harbors mere curiosity for our mortal vessels._

“Nabriales and his team will be departing soon,” Hythlodaeus told Emet-Selch, deigning not to acknowledge how the Scions spoke amongst themselves and kept a pointed space from them both once the attention was taken from them, “with temporary jurisdiction transferred to Fandaniel and yourself.”

“He did not see fit to tell me that himself?” Emet-Selch’s nose went to the air, but a faint smile was on his face all the same.

“He said he’d send you the summary of his meager findings over e-mail sometime in the future. I’d give him a month to get around to it, personally.”

“I can’t say I’m too disappointed by that.”

“I didn’t think you would be. It’s good to know you haven’t changed _too_ much.” 

Emet-Selch did not have a reply for that. 

By the slight forward sway to Hythlodaeus’ form and a niggling feeling in the back of G’raha’s mind while watching him, it seemed he had more to say. Whether because of his mortal audience or something else, however, all he said was: “I’m leaving you to tell your own story, just so you know.”

“I appreciate that,” Emet-Selch replied, and seemed to mean it.

“Who is Fandaniel?” This, from Alphinaud. The two robed figures glanced down toward him. “That name sounds familiar from the discussion outside.”

“Fandaniel is a Convocation member,” Hythlodaeus said, “known also as the Analyst.”

“The Fourteenth,” Emet-selch said at the exact same time. 

“The one who left?” Y’shtola murmured.

“It matters not,” Emet-Selch said, tone brooking no argument. Hythlodaeus’ attention shifted to his friend at the abrupt shut-down, but again, he did not protest. G’raha was starting to see why he apparently managed to get along with Emet-Selch for extended periods of time. “She specializes in understanding and reverse engineering chaotic constructs. I’m sure she’ll be very interested in what you have in the basement.”

The repurposed Alexander.

Or, better put: the conduit for the time gates.

G’raha’s ears pinned flat to his head. 

“She can look,” he said, sharper and quicker than he meant to be. “I doubt she’ll understand what she sees, just as you did not.”

“All considered,” Emet-Selch replied, his faint smile back again and as loathsome as ever, “that’s no longer such a thorn in my side.”

“I suppose it isn’t,” G’raha allowed. But it was for the rest of them. Maybe, if the Fourteenth would be as against Zodiark’s creation as before, she would help them understand what had triggered Alexander’s temporal displacement and, from there, learn how to reverse it.

The idea was, at first brush, a good one. But if Zodiark’s creation entered the equation, then that meant the Doom was not far off-- and if the Doom arrived, would they even have the time to reverse Alexander’s poor state? But then, if the Doom was farther away, would the Fourteenth have any inclination to listen or work alongside a handful of mortal souls? That was too much resting on too big a mystery. 

Unfortunately, G’raha knew already they would need all the outside help they could get in this strange, new world. 

“Ah,” Hythlodaeus said then in exaggerated surprise, forcibly breaking the tense silence that once more descended between the Scions and Emet-Selch, “I sense that she’s just arrived in the foyer. That was fast.”

“If I recall correctly,” Emet-Selch muttered, “she was… _is_ , easily distracted.”

“I can’t argue that.”

Great.

That didn’t bode well for planning purposes.

But then, just as the Scions exchanged glances in an attempt to wordlessly strategize their introduction, the Fourteenth took it out of their hands. 

She arrived with a flourish and a crash: the door banged into the wall as she flung it open, though she then loitered on its threshold with a face-splitting grin under her round, fanged red mask. The eyes of the mask were diamond-shaped, downward slants, outlined in white, which matched the pale stripe covering her nose.

“Emet-Selch, hello! I can’t believe all we have to _discuss_ , this is absolutely incredi-- Hythlodaeus?! Are you supposed to be here?”

“Fandaniel,” Emet-Selch said in greeting, voice curiously blank compared to how he’d thus-far addressed other Amaurotines. “Yes, Hythlodaeus is supposed to be here. He’s been provided clearance.”

“That’s news to me, but I won’t object.”

“You’d be crazy to,” Fandaniel said, almost overeager in the empathetic statement. “Do you feel the energy of this place? It’s like its own living, breathing, aether-gorged organism! I’ve never seen anything like it, and that’s not even touching how it _got_ here. I’ve no idea how it could have possibly gotten past Amaurot’s shielding. And there were, ah, Nabriales mentioned-- oh!”

She’d finally looked down. 

The Scions looked back up at her, part befuddled and part wary.

“Oh,” she repeated, all her steam suddenly escaping her. Her hands froze in front of her chest, one loosely clasped over her heart if she’d been a hyur or elezen or any other sentient bipedal race. 

“What is it?” Hythlodaeus asked immediately. At that point in the day, he must have been attuned to when an _oh_ meant something he really didn’t want to hear.

Emet-Selch, too, had his attention on her. 

“These are…” She started, then stopped. Cleared her throat. Dropped her hands, and spun on a heel toward Emet-Selch. “... Not, um, not what I expected! Are you sure they… shouldn’t be returned to the Underworl--?”

“Not until we’ve secured the tower,” Emet-Selch said smoothly. “Who knows what piece of knowledge they may hold relating to its mysteries?”

She was quiet for a beat too long to be natural. Then she shook her head and rallied herself, drawing herself up to her full height. She was, G’raha noted, a head or two shorter than Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus.

“Very fair. Good thinking! Can they-- I mean, er, you’re all capable of speech, I’ve been told?”

“Odd way to phrase that question,” Y’shtola said lightly, though the edge to her tone could cut.

Fandaniel, to the Scions’ collective surprise, laughed. It didn’t even seem forced. “I guess so! We’ll have a lot to talk about, you and I. Well, that is, I and-- all of you. All, very many of you. Hm.” She put her finger to her chin and tilted her head. The gesture struck G’raha as eerily familiar; as it brought to mind the hero lost to them, he banished it quickly so as to keep his straight face before Emet-Selch. “We could start with introductions?”

They had to start somewhere, and it was as good a place as any.

“I’ll start!” Fandaniel clapped her hands together, then -- in a move that was becoming more and more familiar, although begrudgingly so for its intended audience -- crouched. “I’m Fandaniel, the Analyst. I’ll be honest: I’ve come here in part to study all of you.”

“Fantastic,” Thancred deadpanned. 

Y’shtola huffed a laugh. Ryne covered her smile with her hand.

Alphinaud, perhaps sensing the reluctance of his fellow Scions to dance again through the hoops of speaking with a new Ancient being (only this time without admitting they’d time traveled or that they’d been on opposing sides of Emet-Selch, which were huge pieces to leave out), took point on the introductions.

**. . .**

Fandaniel, it turned out, had a lot of questions for them that they couldn’t possibly hope to answer. Questions about aetherology and five of the seven’s _evident_ lack of corporeal forms (the reason for why they smoothly glazed over), and biology, and sociology, and a dozen more topics that Emet-Selch declared irrelevant moments before taking his leave to, as he told his fellow Amaurotines, _see the tower’s levels for himself._

No one remarked on how the Scions breathed easier once he departed the room.

It did prompt Alisaie -- who especially disliked the borderline interrogation, and informed Fandaniel as much whenever the Amaurotine swerved too obviously into regarding them as experiments gone wrong (which was, unfortunately, quite often) -- to request they relocate their discussion to the kitchen. 

Hythlodaeus had been true to his word of procuring them what they needed. But, even a seemingly endless supply of snacks in the form of roasted peanuts and pretzels did not distract them from their situation, and soon the incessant questioning came to be too much for the most patient of them. Although Fandaniel was as a bullpup with a bone, Hythlodaeus ultimately distracted her with the prospect of viewing the rest of the tower rather than simply questioning the mortals. 

When _they_ departed, tension the Scions had not even realized they held finally left them. It was as a sigh of relief behind closed doors after a too-long day: all of them fell silent in the wake of the Amaurotines’ departure, and more than one pair of eyelids drooped in exhaustion. The kitchen’s perpetual bright, blue walls and lighting seemed to mock them.

“Is this really happening?” One asked into the quiet. Ryne.

“We’re in Amaurot. _The_ Amaurot.” That, from Alphinaud.

“Yes, I think we’ve gathered that.” Alisaie rebuffed, weakly. “They won’t stop reminding us.”

“They can’t help being… them.”

“I know, I know. It’s still unfortunate for us.”

“It’s exhausting for us,” Y’shtola said, a sober note. “They think us little more than particularly chatty pets.”

“At least they think us charming,” G’raha offered.

Y’shtola shook her head, and glanced away. “With the right number of tricks, they even may allow us the honor of walking outside unsupervised.”

All fell quiet at that.

Then, from Thancred, “We’ve fought bigger gods than them. All I’ve learned from today is that they’re no different from us.”

“It makes it worse, doesn’t it?” Ryne asked.

“In a way,” Urianger agreed.

Thancred’s mouth thinned. “Not in a way that will stop us.”

“That we can let stop us,” Y’shtola returned. “That’s true. Nothing’s really changed from when we first entered Emet-Selch’s Amaurot.”

Except for their missing eighth member, but all of them were loathe to address that marid in the room.

“How do you figure?” Alphinaud prompted her.

“We still have to ensure our worlds continue on their rightful path. That our people, on the First and the Source, survive.”

“But then the people here…” Ryne shrunk into herself. “Maybe there’s another way. I know I said it before, but doesn’t the addition of time make it more possible?”

“Thou hast yet books on Garlond’s theories of parallel universes, correct?” Urianger asked, his calm gaze directed to the Exarch. Because he did, for all they would likely be of no use, G’raha nodded. Urianger looked back to Ryne, and, gently: “We shall spend all time permissible researching another way, Ryne.”

Y’shtola didn’t seem able to let herself believe in the scant possibility of another way. G’raha couldn’t blame her. “If there is another way, we’ll take it. But right now, there’s only us here. We need to return to _our_ future and ensure it is on track, with or without--”

She paused. Her mouth, just as Thancred’s had, pressed thin. Her ears angled back, and her index finger tapped restlessly against the kitchen table.

“... If Cahsi is here, we’ll find her.” That, from Thancred. Y’shtola’s eyes snapped to his direction. “If she’s not, we can only assume she’s still on the First. She might even be looking for us right now.”

It was very unlikely.

G’raha said, instead of that, “I can search for her when I have the time. And when I am away from any prying Amaurotine eyes, as well.”

None of them questioned how he would have the powers to do so. Thancred and half the others simply nodded, and accepted it. 

They had nothing else they could do but rely on one another. That, at least, hadn’t changed.

G’raha just hoped it would hold true without the Warrior of Light to bind them together; or, more specifically, to maintain _their_ trust in _him._

Fortunately for their united front: desperation, for better or worse, went far.


	3. Chapter 3

In the strictest, most technical meaning of the word: Alexander was completely fried. 

Alexander, harnessed and repurposed as the Tycoon to save countless lives across the Source and First, sat no longer amidst the beautiful product of the Source’s very best engineering. The massive glass portals that had surrounded it were cracked and warped, the walls filled with a rising-and-falling, ever-present whine as pipes and cogs tried to turn in their ruined routes but failed to budge even an inch. The only good thing of the entire situation was that it had stopped smoldering by the time the Amaurotines found it, and so let it be because they believed it the useless hunk of machinery it appeared to be.

The melty wreckage in the middle of an equally melty platform did something odd to G’raha’s throat. He wished suddenly and intensely that he still wore his hood up around the Scions, as he very much would have liked to hide behind it.

Urianger at least paid him the respect of not looking too closely at him. He didn’t even bid G’raha walk closer from his place on Alexander’s chamber’s threshold. Instead, he spoke loud enough to be heard from where he was on the other side of the not-so-towering puddle of once-complex and hope-filled machinery.

He asked, “Dost thine awareness extend to this machina?” 

“Not particularly.” Fortunately, or he’d also probably be melty in more than emotions right then. “It, ah, regulated the Tower’s temporal stasis through the rift to the First. Ensured nothing rusted and rotted, and that we landed when we intended.”

“You were right in that it doesn’t look much like the one near Idyllshire. It’s a lot smaller, for one.” Thancred asked, only faintly curious. He had no eye for machina and had accompanied them more to ensure no monstrous occupant of the lower levels had woken up and decided to take a bite out of Urianger or the still-weak G’raha on their foray to Alexander.

Urianger’s voice took on an amused edge. “Didst thou harbor belief one of similar giantry lurked in the Crystal Tower?”

Thancred shrugged. “I wasn’t going to rule out one being stuck in a storage closet somewhere. Everything else in this place is excessively oversized.”

“We’ll need to repair it if we have any hope of returning to our time,” G’raha said, _needlessly_. They knew that. He’d told them as much no less than three times on their way down. “If we can procure the aid of the Amaurotines’ creation magics, we won’t want for supplies, at least.”

“That’s a big if,” Thancred said.

“Not as large as it once had been,” Urianger noted, rounding the edge of what had been one of Alexander’s hulking arms and back into G’raha’s view, “if Hythlodaeus persists in walking these halls. He has a gentle and generous soul, and more than that, he wants what we alone can currently offer.”

Thancred snorted. “News about his _friend,_ you mean?”

“Just so.”

“It may be that magicked items, even made with those as strong as an Amaurotine’s, won’t be compatible with Alexander.”

Urianger’s brow furrowed at G’raha. “Dost thou know that for sure?”

G’raha shook his head, and gripped his staff tighter in both hands. They had the schematics left by Garlond Ironworks on file, but while G’raha understood the rough idea of what went into making Alexander work as Alexander did, he hadn’t the engineering expertise to truly decipher its specifications. As it quickly turned out (to no surprise), none of them did.

Urianger schooled his expression into one of neutrality, as did Thancred-- a look G’raha was well familiar with, as it matched the ones they had given him after he’d tried, and failed, to send them home to the Source. 

He knew it did no good to dwell on past wrongs. And yet, his mind stuck on how the Scions worked so hard to not upset him, even when they had such great cause.

He had the thought, then, that he needed to leave Alexander’s chamber. Needed to get the cracked glass out his sight, and the sad, bubbled slope of Alexander’s warped metal feathers far away from himself. 

He needed out. Immediately.

His knuckles whitened on his staff, his head ducking.

“We’ll figure out what’s compatible once we figure out how to even rebuild it,” Thancred said, firm in a way that was meant to be reassuring. Whether due to his own feelings on the matter or the expression he saw on G’raha’s face, he then continued with, “Now that we’ve seen the damage, I think it’s safe to say there’s nothing we can do for it right now. Let’s head back up.”

They all readily agreed with that.

The way up was as uneventful as the way down. G’raha, fatigued as he was, could not teleport them directly to the Ocular; but he recalled a shortcut established by Biggs III once he saw the tell-tale chalk markings he had used once upon a time to mark the passages they’d secured. It required powering up a teleportation pad that hadn’t been used in close to a century, but it made their ascent far more comfortable than the ten flights of stairs they’d have otherwise been condemned to climb. As powering a pad required no more than redirecting the slightest energy from the Tower through G’raha, it was a no-brainer to use it instead.

“Is something wrong?” Urianger nonetheless asked after G’raha had knelt and activated the pad.

“Ah-- the Tower’s energies are still out of alignment,” G’raha admitted, standing up with a small wince and shaking out his stinging fingertips, “so they just gave me a shock. Nothing to worry about.”

Urianger nodded, while Thancred wasted no time in stepping on the pad and launching himself upward. As the surface never seemed so alluring as when they were plummeting deep into the Tower’s depths, G’raha did not blame his impatience.

The pad operated as expected.

As did the platform it sat upon, the wires carrying the leftover power swiftly across old, faulty circuitry to the long-deactivated containment bay fastened below it.

**. . .**

  
Five days after arriving in the true Amaurot saw the crowds at last begin to disperse from the Tower’s base.

Not that the Scions mingled with them. But they were easily spotted from the Tower’s thin, translucent outer walls, as well as when G’raha would draw up a viewing portal on the Ocular’s screen to give them a peek at what they were dealing with outside of their makeshift house-arrest.

Ryne was happy that the Amaurotines didn’t see a need to contain them to a specific room. They had the whole run of the Tower, which far surpassed Eulmore’s fortress in things to do and new places to see. She explored as much as she was allowed, which meant anywhere an Amaurotine was not and that was also above ground level, _as long as she traveled with a Scion (specifically, Thancred) or the Exarch._ She understood the buddy system well enough, but personally thought the restriction against Amaurotines a little overboard. Regardless, she followed both rules. Her confidence hadn’t yet grown enough for her to confront Thancred’s overwhelming aversion to Amaurotines.

Maybe one day soon, she would. Like… when Hythlodaeus continued to demonstrate that not all Amaurotines were like the Ascians they knew. Or when they could figure out a way to keep even someone like Emet-Selch from becoming like Emet-Selch. Except that probably required diverting the Doom (which Y’shtola had no problem telling her was a real concern, even if Thancred didn’t want her hearing about it), and they didn’t yet have an idea of how to do that without destroying their own future.

They would, though. With all their talents and experience combined with Amaurotine’s strongest, they _had_ to. If the Exarch and his team could work out how to save the First in under two centuries, they could definitely help save Amaurot, the Source, _and_ the First.

Those were large hopes and fears that grew larger when trapped in the Tower for nearly a week. They pressed in on her at the strangest times. Most often when things were quiet, the Amaurotine teams picking away at the Tower’s numerous rooms while the Scions set up to sleep for however many bells they could catch. In those moments, she caught herself ruminating on all that she _couldn’t_ do-- because for whatever reason since they’d arrived in the real Amaurot, she hadn’t been able to feel Hydaelyn. No matter what exercises Urianger and Y’shtola guided her through to access the Light that had always existed in her, it was as if she’d been knocked back into the days before she really knew who -- and what -- she was.

It couldn’t last, she told herself. It must have had something to do with the time travel. Maybe it’d turned back the clock on her powers, too. 

Even though it hadn’t done that to anyone else.

Even though everyone else had something else to contribute.

Even though---

_It’s no use to dwell on._

She did her best to convince herself of that.

When it failed, Ryne asked the Exarch to show her something she hadn’t seen yet. 

By day five, she felt she’d seen most of the Tower (because for how large it was, there were only so many giant above-surface rooms that weren’t overtaken with the Amaurotine team’s investigatory equipment). 

He’d blinked at her, then grinned that tiny smile of his that nonetheless betrayed his absolute excitement. There was a greenhouse on the roof, he told her--and would Thancred like to come along?

When Ryne turned to where he sat on a chair appropriately-sized for a mortal, cleaning his gunblade for the thousandth time since Hythlodaeus had returned it to him (which had also been the first and only time she’d heard him thank an Amaurotine with all sincerity), he gave her a one-shouldered shrug and a fond, _get out of here_ look. The Exarch clearly counted as an acceptable bodyguard. 

She smiled back at him, then at the Exarch, who said something like _maybe next time, then!_ before leading her happily to a teleportation pad in his secondary reading room that had been buried under a stack of books.

It was an unusual display of high spirits from him, but she wouldn’t look that gift amaro in the mouth. 

The day before, the Exarch confessed that he’d spent most of the time after Emet-Selch took him from Mt. Gulg as either unconscious, borderline unconscious, or actively fighting to get to where he _knew_ the Warrior of Light and Emet-Selch were fated to meet. He couldn’t explain how he knew where they’d be, but he’d found them after wandering Amaurot’s burning roads for almost longer than his energy allowed. 

Discussing that led to Urianger filling the rest of them in on the Exarch’s self-sacrificial plan. 

They hadn’t taken kindly to it. They really, really hadn’t taken kindly to it. 

Alisaie physically knocked some sense into him that he understood meant that they really, _really_ hadn’t liked that plan, and they wouldn’t be entertaining anything even vaguely similar for their current predicament.

So maybe Alisaie’s _don’t you go throwing away your life for us without even our say-so_ had gotten through to him. Or maybe whatever Emet-Selch and Fandaniel’s teams were doing to the Tower was actually helping to stabilize its energies, and so he was feeling better. Whatever it was, it meant he told her all about the gardening he’d tried to take up over the years on the top of the tower, and how abysmally out of control it’d gotten. He had no idea how it survived the temporal journey to Amaurot, but considering the Tower’s front steps had similarly arrived intact, he supposed it was now just another part of the building. Fandaniel had taken small ( _and harmless!_ she insisted) samples of all the plants for someone named Halmarut, apparently, but he didn’t know or expect to know what came of that. She hadn’t even asked him whether she could take the samples-- he’d just happened upon her grabbing clippings. The interaction obviously bothered him, but he tried so hard to hide it behind flippancy that she didn’t comment on it.

It was clear he felt proud and protective of his gardening. Or, at least, he liked to see how she reacted to news about how strange it was.

She’d thought he’d exaggerated its wildness in his usual bid for modesty, but when they got to the top and she was faced with glowing blue sunflowers that stood taller than an Amaurotine, she had to admit he was right: it was a verifiable jungle.

“Some of them have begun to pick up on vibrations through the ground, I think,” he was saying as she gawked at just how far up their near-black leaves stretched, “because they turn toward anyone who walks nearby.”

Ryne eyed the sunflowers with a little more care. “Are they dangerous?”

“They’re,” he said, then stalled, scratching at his chin, “not aggressive to people, no.”

She almost laughed. “What’s that mean?”

“They’re not fond of other plants,” he said, sounding somehow embarrassed. As if they were his misbehaving children. “Other plants don’t feed and water them, you see.”

“Is that why the greenhouse’s glass is so thick? To keep them out?”

“Er,” he hedged again, “yes, actually. It is. Although I have to replace the frame every year or so, because they are persistent -- and clever -- about getting in.”

She _did_ laugh at that.

The Exarch gave her another one of his tiny smiles, and asked if she’d like to see inside the greenhouse. 

She responded that she most definitely would. 

By the time they exited the greenhouse, she had a fresh apple as big as her head to snack on, and he had a new lightness in his step. 

Purple-black clouds had also gathered on the otherwise sunny horizon line. As they stopped and watched for a mere moment, the clouds drew rapidly closer. 

In its prime, Amaurot stretched across a massive valley. A clear blue river ran from its north to its south, providing the only smooth outlets along its bordering, tree- and stone-covered mountains. The Tower sat on the city’s easternmost edge, mere yalms away from one of the larger, more jagged foothills. Because the Tower reached even higher than Amaurot’s tallest building, they had a good view of the marbled city’s impressive sprawl, as well as the beautiful, multicolored landscape around it. The trees came in all sorts of colors, from blue to lavender to a startlingly bright shade of red, and most seemed to be spotted with equally colorful flowers. The earth below them was of a dark stone speckled with green grasses, although Ryne couldn’t make out as well the details of that from her high perch on the Tower’s roof.

Awe-inspiring as its twisting spires and sparkling river was during the day, the way the city glowed with soft blues and yellows throughout the night had not yet failed to fill Ryne’s mind with wonder. It really did look like paradise, if paradise never slept. 

“Those are rain clouds, aren’t they?” Ryne asked around her first bite of apple. The weather had thus far been nothing but sunny and pleasant, but the clouds promised a change to that. “It looks like a storm.”

The Exarch agreed. “We should head back in before it arrives.”

“Definitely. Although, you know,” she swallowed her bite of apple to buy herself some time, “it’s not here _yet._ ”

He looked at her, clearly knowing her angle. She studiously avoided his gaze.

After a moment, he said, “It does look quite far away.”

“It does,” she agreed.

“And I see no lightning and hear no thunder.”

“I haven’t, either.”

“But these robes are dreadfully heavy when wet, so we’ll have to go in sometime soon.”

“Sometime sounds fine,” she chirped, and took another bite of her apple as she walked herself closer to the roof’s ledge for a better view of the storm’s roiling edges. She glanced only briefly at how the sunflower did, indeed, turn to follow her progress through the garden, as her true fascination stuck with the approaching dark clouds. Her attention caught then on how the twisting, seaweed-like spires began to recede into the ground. “Look! The spires are moving.”

The Exarch followed her at a slower pace. She hoped he had that small smile on his face.

By the sound of his voice, he did. “So they are. To better protect themselves against high winds and lightning, I imagine.”

“We should take that technology back with us,” she said. “Buildings that can go underground when a storm approaches… That’d be really useful with Amh Araeng’s sandstorms.”

As all the Scions except Alphinaud did when she proposed bringing back handy technology, the Exarch made a kind but ultimately non-commital noise. 

Thancred had told her straight-on that there was no way they could operate things as the Amaurotines did. The thing was, he had a tendency toward cynicism when it came to them, so what did he really know about anything they could or couldn’t use! They could at least _try._

“Does the Source have sandstorms?” She asked, suddenly taken with the idea that if the storm was so impressive to them now, what had been impressive to him when he’d jumped worlds for the first time?

“Yes, of course,” he said after another one of his pauses, as if he had to think about how to answer. That didn’t make sense, though, as he’d grown up in the Source and had to know whether or not there were deserts with sandstorms. So it was more likely he just hadn’t expected her to ask him that.

Well, he’d have to get used to it, because now she was curious. “What did the First have that the Source didn’t?”

Aside from the never-ending Light. They both knew that.

“Lakeland’s trees were more purple than I expected trees to be,” he admitted. “And the grass. And the rocks. Everything, actually, was just very… purple.”

“That sounds overwhelming,” she said, “trees being what they usually aren’t.”

“It was, a bit.” He sounded wistful. “Now, though, I wonder if I wouldn’t think green to be the odd color for most trees. I’ve lived four times as long in Lakeland than I did on the Source, after all.”

“Would it be bad if green did seem strange?”

“Bad? Not necessarily.”

“But a little bit…”

“A little bit… strange, is all.” 

‘Strange’ didn’t seem to really cover how he felt about it.

When they’d first started traveling together, Thancred had told her that most people didn’t like their emotions being commented on. He’d said it differently, of course, a little more like _stop telling me what I’m feeling, how would you know_ , only ruder and with less words. She’d stopped not because he’d been angry but because he’d sounded hurt, and she hadn’t wanted to drive away the only person keeping her from being locked in Eulmore’s dungeons again. 

They hadn’t gotten along well in the beginning, to put it mildly. 

Thancred hadn’t needed to tell her that, though. She knew people didn’t often like confronting their feelings. She just also knew that sometimes, that was what a person needed.

“Is that why you still go by ‘The Exarch’?”

“Huh?” He sounded honestly flummoxed by that one, his eyes big as dinner plates. 

She wondered briefly if she should press, then decided there was no harm in asking. That was something Thancred _had_ taught her-- that if she asked, sometimes, people answered, and not with fists or demands that she shut up.

“You told us that Exarch’s just a title,” she said, her eyes again on the horizon that the storm had long overtaken, “but you’ve used it so much instead of your actual name, maybe it feels more like who you actually are now? I should’ve asked before introducing you with it, but since you didn’t say anything, I thought… it might be alright.”

“That’s…”

Ryne waited, but he did not continue.

“It must feel strange.” Really strange, not strange-as-a-cover-for-something-else. She leaned against the ledge’s sturdy railing and hooked one foot behind the other. “I know it did for me, when I became Ryne for the first time. I’d been Minfilia for so long… Ryne didn’t feel right, even though I really wanted it to. I started worrying whether Ryne would ever fit _me_ , or if I’d just have to go back to being Minfilia.”

He asked, “How long did it take for Ryne to feel comfortable?”

She smiled. “Definitely a while.”

“Like growing pains,” he offered, sounding off.

“Yeah,” she agreed, still not looking his way so he could pretend he was hiding behind the hood he still didn’t keep up, “like growing pains. In the end, Ryne fit better than Minfilia ever had.”

He was quiet.

“Do you want to be the Exarch?” she asked, because sometimes when she asked questions, people answered.

And sometimes, they didn’t. 

He said, “I fear I’d need the new name written across a hat if I changed it after all this time.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she replied without missing a beat, “and, for what it’s worth, I think G’raha Tia sounds just fine, too.”

He tried for a laugh. It sounded a bit too choked up to be fine. She snuck a look at him, and found that he’d turned his face away from her, everything _open_ about him drawing back and locking up tight. 

_You can ask anytime,_ she almost said, thinking about how incredible Thancred and the Scions’ patience with her choosing her name had felt, _just let us know._

But he’d proven to have secrets before. Maybe he still had a few. Maybe he needed that shield, for himself more than for them. Maybe she was telling him how to feel, and not letting him decide his own path. Maybe it was beyond her station.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

“Oh-- wow, the rain’s almost here!” she said instead, taking a page out of Thancred’s book and changing the subject for both their sakes. Before she said something very wrong, and the Exarch didn’t want to talk to her anymore-- or, worse, thought she should shut up. It wasn’t something she could see him saying, not even to her, but a bit of her worried. A bit of her always worried. “We should probably head back in.”

He cleared his throat and said, remarkably put-together, “That’s a good idea. Yes, let’s, ah, rejoin the others.”

“Can we take the stairs?” It was weird to think, but she felt like she needed any extra exercise she could get. Although Thancred continued to train her and Alisaie had promised to run the Tower’s more complete stretches of platforms with her during one of their mornings, being cooped up made her incurably restless. 

The Exarch laughed again, more solid than before. “Fine, fine! -- But I’ll have to go slow. Old bones, you know.”

“That’s fine,” she quickly said, happy enough with the idea of walking. “Are there any routes back to the Ocular that has a lot of windows? I bet the storm will look amazing from this far up.”

“I can’t help but agree. Alright, let me think… Yes, I know of a way. A scenic route, if you will. Follow me.”

He had a quirk to his mouth, but she wouldn’t call it a smile.

Even so, she could work with that. At least he hadn’t returned to hiding in his hood.

**. . .**

The storm covered the city within moments of their descent into the Tower’s roof-to-fiftieth-floor, crystal and gold-edged stairwell.

Rain pelted the exterior with the single-minded intent of an indifferent natural phenomenon. Thunder rumbled while flashes of white and yellow lit the clouds, but no bolt broke from skyline to cityscape. 

After one particularly close and long drumbeat of thunder, Ryne stopped by the most translucent, green-tinted windows to watch how the lightning danced through the clouds. She wondered if somehow, the Amaurotines managed to ward their city against the storm’s worst. They seemed like they would if they could, and they probably could.

The stairwell was undoubtedly the long way down. It circled the outermost walls of the towers in a long downward stretch broken by two types of platforms. The first were big platforms, such as the Golden Sacristy, which the Exarch explained had once hosted one of the Tower’s many nesting dragons prior to the Warrior of Light clearing them out. The second were tinier platforms closer to the Tower’s actual outer walls. Those hosted various massive doorways to even more massive rooms. When the Exarch needed extra time to catch up with her -- and he did, pausing to _keep his mind from spinning by going in circles_ , as he said -- she’d stop and peek into the rooms. 

Most were empty, the walls and floors giving off eerie glowing patterns that she knew now to be _Allagan-like._ The patterns just looked like someone had traced glowing lines into Ronkan ruins, but Y’shtola had been quick to tell her that the Allagan and Ronkan Empires were different enough to warrant separation. When she asked her to describe what she meant, she said the Allagans most enjoyed lifting their cities into the sky, while the Ronkans had the good sense to keep on the ground. The idea of a floating empire was a frightening one indeed, so Ryne never forgot the difference after that.

A few of the small rooms had jagged spikes of red aether crystal spiking from a puddle of thick, purple-and-black or nasty green viscous liquid. She made sure not to linger at those rooms, as she was sure the Exarch would tell her to keep well away from them if he hadn’t been so distracted with not tripping down the stairs.

Eventually they reached what she imagined to be the mid-level of the Tower, and ran into evidence of living beings.

The Amaurotines had made their way steadily upward as they furiously catalogued all they could about the mystery Tower. They tagged the walls they’d ‘cleared’ with strange tape, and moved a large, blocky contraption upwards with them as their mobile workshop. When asked, Fandaniel said it was for desynthesizing materials down to their ‘adams,’ if needed. They hadn’t yet figured out that their best source of information weren’t the integrated computer files and breaking down the Tower’s materials, but rather the robed Mystel and his collection of Ironworks datapads. 

The Scions had unanimously and silently agreed to not let that fae out of the bag. They were still approached with questions, but only from Fandaniel and Hythlodaeus; the others didn’t seem sure of how to interact with them, and not convinced enough of their worth to make the effort to try. As it became quickly apparent none of them knew much about the Tower (and the Exarch let his silence speak for him), the questions grew more kindly and absently curious than analytical. 

Ryne appreciated that. In consequence, she didn’t mind stumbling on an Amaurotine with a thin, glass-like datapad in the halls, as they were either more scared of her -- as evidenced by them always giving her an awkward, clumsy nod and then either stuttering an excuse to leave -- or indifferent to her existence, _or_ they were nice (that was: the Analyst and Hythlodaeus). The other Scions minded, especially as Emet-Selch was among the number to be stumbled upon, but they had much more history with the Ascians than she did. 

She hadn’t interacted with Emet-Selch beyond seeing him lurking, alone, on the edges of the Ocular at odd hours, so she wasn’t sure what she thought of him. 

The blocky contraption sat alone to the side of the mid-level room she peered into. It had stainless steel sides with small wheels on the bottom, and a bunch of white-plated instruments on top. Around it were signs of passionately careless investigators: a box of pilfered crystal cuttings there, a lightweight stool with three discarded glass datapads there. Someone had summoned a worn-looking sofa opposite the metal contraption and covered it with spare clothing and rumpled, clear-sided bags. The walls continued to pulse with their Allagan markings, uncaring of its new occupants.

“Where do you think they went?” Ryne asked when the Exarch joined her, peering in despite himself over her head. She’d opened the door because she was curious, not expecting to find anything as noteworthy as their workstation.

“It is dinner time,” he mused. “I’ve noticed they head out for meals a lot.”

Huh! “What do Amaurotines eat?”

“Aether in a bag, maybe?”

“-- Really?”

“There’s no telling,” he said, pitching his voice low so as to sound cryptic. “How else do you think they keep up their skin’s illustrious glow?” 

She stifled her giggle, but found herself smiling all the same.

It didn’t seem right to enter without them there, although a bit of her wanted to poke at the unknown contraption. The Exarch seemed to agree with her in the weirdness of doing so, however, as they both soon straightened from the doorframe and stepped back. He quietly made to close the door, but then stopped as a low, electric-sounding hum filled the room.

They looked back in to find Emet-Selch in the middle of the room. He had his back to them and his hood up, but Ryne knew it was him at a glance all the same-- and not only because he was the only Amaurotine she’d seen with a perpetual slouch.

The Exarch froze, his hand still on the door. Ryne froze behind him, unsure of what to do.

They all, as an unspoken rule, avoided Emet-Selch. It wasn’t hard, as Emet-Selch appeared to operate under the same presumption that they wanted nothing to do with each other sooner than they had to. In the last five days, she had heard only Urianger and Y’shtola mention even breathing in the same direction as Emet-Selch, and that had been because they’d been mid-conversation with Hythlodaeus when he’d appeared from nowhere. 

He hadn’t done anything, they’d said. He’d ignored them and bid Hythlodaeus to attend to some duty related to closing documents for Nabriales, and after Hythlodaeus made his good-byes, off they went. 

They still couldn’t trust him. But they had to live with him, at least while they were surrounded by people who would absolutely take his side over theirs.

The Emet-Selch that appeared in the room, alone, similarly engaged in no grand gestures or overt threats. He genuinely didn’t seem to notice them, as he shuffled his way to the glass datapads on the stool and plucked the bottom one from the pile. Caught by the rare opportunity to watch _him_ without him knowing, Ryne and the Exarch remained silent as Emet-Selch tapped on the datapad, causing its front to light up, and tapped more at it. He then took it to the contraption and pulled a cord from its side, plugging it into the datapad. He moved as if his limbs were solid rock, and his destination malms away. 

It seemed odd that he’d returned alone. Was _his_ work really that time-pressed? The other Amaurotines rarely traveled without a companion, even if they weren’t all very chatty. And after he’d spent so long apart from them, and how much he’d professed missing them, she’d thought he’d never want to leave their sides, either.

Ryne tugged on the Exarch’s sleeve, bidding that they leave. She didn’t care how awful he’d been to them. It wasn’t right for them to linger without him knowing.

Outside, the rain continued its heavy mantra against the Tower’s walls.

The Exarch glanced down at her, his brow pinched in thought and his eyes narrowed with a tense question she didn’t think was directed toward her. Before she could say anything-- although he must have seen how she wanted to leave on her face!-- he turned back to the room and, loud enough to be heard over the storm, cleared his throat.

Emet-Selch’s figure snapped upright from where it hunched over the contraption. He spun toward them on a heel, his robes swirling out in a manner that reminded her of a bird puffing out its feathers to seem bigger. Except he didn’t need the help: he stood nearly four-times their height, and didn’t fail to make them feel it.

“Emet-Selch,” the Exarch said, his back ramrod straight and his arms flat at his sides, “what are you up to?”

“My job,” he replied, the old, snide edge in his voice so awfully familiar, “while you are busy with… what, exactly? Loitering in doorways?”

Ryne almost told him that they’d been visiting the greenhouse on the roof. But then she took in again the Exarch’s tense posture, and recalled how defensive he’d been over the Amaurotines taking clippings from his plants, and decided against it. 

Instead she said, before the Exarch could respond, “We didn’t mean to startle you. We were just exploring. Or, well,” she amended as Emet-Selch’s blank mask turned her way in a decidedly unimpressed fashion, “I was exploring. The Exarch’s accompanying me.”

His lip curled. “I’m waiting to hear how this concerns me or my work.”

“What is your work, exactly? What is that machina you’ve been lugging around?”

“It’s some sort of workstation, right?” Ryne said, hoping to smooth over the Exarch’s sharper tone.

Emet-Selch was having none of it. “Please, spare me the chatter. Neither of you care about the particulars of a computer. You’ve seen it, and that’s about as much as you can be expected to understand.”

The Exarch took a step into the room. Then another, when Emet-Selch’s frown deepened in response.

Ryne tried not to bury her face in her hands.

“What’s it saying, then, if you won’t teach us how it works?”

Emet-Selch’s frown became a scowl. For a moment, he looked more happy and ready to throw the datapad at the Exarch than answer his question. Ryne hurried to catch up with the Exarch’s progress into the room in case he needed back-up, not that she could do anything to really help.

Then: the moment passed, and the scowl lightened to a sneer.

“It’s saying the Lifestream is flooding your Tower’s basement as of yesterday. There’s been a rupture between the star’s dimensional fabric.”

“That isn’t a rupture,” the Exarch returned immediately, “that’s the reactor. It’s supposed to be there.”

“I assure you, I know what _my_ reactor is supposed to look like. What has leaked is an unintended consequence to our flaunting of universal constants, such as time.”

“What will happen if it’s not fixed?” Ryne asked.

Emet-Selch waved a dismissive hand through the air. “It will be.”

“But if it’s not?” The Exarch pressed, stopping himself a mere three arm’s lengths from Emet-Selch. He had to crane his neck to look up at the Ascian, but he managed to do it without losing an ounce of steel in his spine.

“Then the reactor’s safeguards are overwhelmed and the Tower’s foundation implodes,” Emet-Selch replied. “Which it won’t, because we’ve already located the rupture. We simply need to sew it shut.”

That was a lot of progress in five days. 

“That’s the difficult part, isn’t it,” the Exarch noted, suddenly sounding as dismissive as Emet-Selch. Pointedly so.

Emet-Selch’s chin raised. Challenging. Daring the Exarch to continue, more like. “That’s the _novel_ part. For them, anyway.”

“So that’s what you’re doing. Giving them the tools to fix the problem without them knowing it was you.”

Aloof, deathly so: “They would have figured it out eventually. I’m simply helping them speed the process up.” 

Ryne took the chance then to look a little closer at the so-called computer. It was predictably massive, although it only came up to Emet-Selch’s hip. Up close, its sides had numerous panels that just begged to be opened; clear-tubed wires hung in loops from a few small pegs; and, on top and so barely visible to Ryne, sat two tubular white-paneled instruments, a raised keyboard, and what seemed like a pointless slanted shelf.

Emet-Selch was probably right. She had no hope of knowing what just half of it could do. 

It still looked neat.

“Whatever you’re about to say that you think so clever,” Emet-Selch was saying to the Exarch, “please, save us the time and breath, and keep it to yourself.”

“Has it been everything you imagined?”

The room’s temperature plummeted. Ryne flinched back from the computer, looking worriedly up at Emet-Selch as the air itself turned heavy and oppressive.

_Hostile._

“Everything and more,” Emet-Selch said, voice still a lethal whisper. “Although I hadn’t imagined you and your mortal friends here to pay witness, I find I don’t entirely mind it. The others find you _endearing_ ; but, they don’t realize the horrors you represent. A nightmare we have the fortune of never again waking in.”

The Exarch’s jaw clenched. His nails dug into his palm, his ears flattening atop his head.

Thunder rumbled again outside. The Tower’s walls held steady, but the air shook.

Ryne knew she needed to say something, anything, to draw them back from each other’s throats. She dug through her mind to find it, then decided she hadn’t the time and opened her mouth, intending to let her tongue run and hopefully salvage the moment from the pending violence.

As she did, a shadow caught her eye. It slid among the cracks between the Allagan floor paneling, a darting length of black that traveled fast toward their trio. 

She hadn’t planned it, but her mouth decided to shout, “Look out!” 

\-- And not a moment too soon.

The shadow resolved itself into a massive, snake-like creature with a huge hood that was peppered along the back with multiple bloodshot eyes. When it opened its mouth, two green-tipped fangs extended. 

It struck Emet-Selch’s ankles first. It would have looked amusing, as the creature had not the size to reach farther up, although it easily could have towered over the Exarch and Ryne. But the _fangs_ \-- the green suggested poison, or acid, or both, considering the Tower’s tendency to combine terrible elements with its monstrous occupants. 

No matter how lethargic he’d appeared prior, Emet-Selch reacted quickly to her warning. He whipped around to find what she stared at, and deftly summoned a thick red rope of magic to strike the creature in the head and divert its course harmlessly to the side. It hissed in displeasure at the forceful rerouting, shaking its head and squeezing its many eyes closed.

Ryne pulled her knives. Beside her, the Exarch summoned a shimmering blue sword and shield, and dropped into a protective stance between her and the monster.

Unfortunately, it proved smart enough to forget its larger target and turn, instead, to more bite-sized meals.

The monster lunged for the Exarch. The Exarch brandished his sword but then struck with his shield, knocking its head - which had to be as big as the Exarch’s torso - aside. The monster recouped faster from the blow than before, shaking its head once before slithering in a lightning-quick arc around the Exarch, who turned on a heel to keep his shield between it and them.

Ryne looked for a gap to sneak around and flank it, but it was a thrashing gasp of off-yellow and black along the floor. 

She saw her opening when it coiled, ready to spring again with fangs bared. She flipped a blade in her hand, ready to lunge first and hoping she’d make it in time-- when a red spear appeared from above and dropped, pinning it to the floor through its skull.

The Exarch’s ears swiveled forward in surprise. Ryne’s breath caught, surprise hitting her.

The monster’s body spasmed once, twice, and thrice from head to tail-tip. 

Then, it did not and would not move again.

Ryne glanced over her shoulder and saw Emet-Selch scowling at the monster’s still form. Red lines swirled around his out-stretched hand, breaking and re-forming into strings of separate dots without any say-so from him. It looked pretty. It looked lethal. It reminded her that he had been willing and glad to use his powers against them. 

She swallowed her sudden discomfort and said, because the Exarch likely wouldn’t take the first step to, “That was close. Thank you, Emet-Selch.”

His gaze moved to meet hers. He stared in seeming incomprehension for a moment. Then he pulled himself together, dismissed the swirling red magics, and dropped his arm to his side. He gave her a short, sharp nod, then turned his attention back to the felled monster.

“Did that slither from the basement?”

“I believe so,” the Exarch replied, still standing near the monster. He, too, had dismissed his weapon. The sword disappeared with a pulse of blue. “We were looking into… It doesn’t matter. I activated a few teleportation pads down there. I might have overcharged them, so that the electricity fed into the containment bays and short-circuited their containment protocols.”

Emet-Selch blew out a breath. “You should have purged those cages decades ago.”

The Exarch turned to face them. He tugged at the sleeve end which covered his crystal arm, in a habit Ryne had learned meant he felt embarrassed or nervous. “They’d survived this long. It felt wrong to take away their chance to one day walk free.”

And then he looked at Emet-Selch straight-on. Face turning forcibly and awfully neutral, he stopped his fidgeting and dropped his arms to his sides. Defensive, without so many words.

Ryne resisted the urge to sigh.

“Maybe there’s space now to release them into the wild?” She asked Emet-Selch, pushing away the resurging tension in the air. “Outside of Amaurot, I mean.”

He replied quickly. “They’d wreck havoc on any ecosystem they entered, even if they only lasted a day.”

“Still… I think the Exarch has a point.”

“We should do something with them, anyway, before more escape,” the Exarch said, taking her bait to discuss something other than his disdain for Emet-Selch. Mentally, she breathed out her sigh.

“Purge them,” Emet-Selch repeated.

“I won’t,” the Exarch replied.

“Why not? They haven’t souls. They’re artificial life _at best._ Why, it’s likely they exist in a state of perpetual pain, and that contributes to their hostility to any they confront.”

“Your opinion has been noted--”

“And disregarded, I presume.”

“-- and, as with all your opinions regarding the state of living beings, discounted.”

Emet-Selch actually drew back at that. If Ryne didn’t know better, she’d say he flustered. “Discounted?”

“You’ve terrible bias,” the Exarch replied coolly, and if Ryne didn’t know better, she’d say he was _absolutely bullshitting Emet-Selch_ , as Thancred would put it, “not to mention incredible prejudice. Your perception of what is and isn’t living can hardly be trusted.”

“I aided in the creation of more than half of those creatures,” Emet-Selch snipped, leaning forward as if to add force to the notion. “I know what makes them far more than you possibly could.”

“You’ve made a terrible parent, then, as well as all else,” the Exarch shot back, his eyes closed in solemnity. 

Emet-Selch drew back at that, his slouch disappearing under his affront. 

“No spawn of mine would dare--”

“What is going on here? What is _that?_ ”

Emet-Selch closed his mouth with a click. 

The Exarch and Ryne spun to face the Amaurotines which had gathered, unnoticed, at the doorway.

Although Emet-Selch used portals around the Tower, the other Amaurotines seemed stuck to hoofing it around its space. Ryne didn’t know why, but it did lead to her catching them oddly and amusingly out of breath after the shortest walks up stairs. The ones at the doorway didn’t appear out of breath, however, which meant they could have been standing there for longer than Ryne thought was comfortable.

Spying must have been in the Amaurotines' blood, she thought. Emet-Selch had definitely indulged in plenty of it. Exposure to the tendency didn’t build up tolerance, however; Ryne felt her earlier discomfort spike, and she drew herself closer to the Exarch to reassure herself that she was not alone.

The Amaurotines, at least, seemed to have eyes for Emet-Selch. Not that she could see their eyes, exactly, but they definitely directed their questions toward him.

“You created that, Emet-Selch?” One Amaurotine asked. “It’s…”

“Unpleasant,” another offered from the back of the group. “Very unpleasant. Is the method of removal always that messy?”

“You certainly didn’t have that tested or approved,” Fandaniel -- standing front and center and looking more unsure than Ryne had ever seen her -- said. “I can’t tell what ecosystem it would possibly fit into. It’s so… unstable.”

Although Emet-Selch had needed a moment to straighten his thoughts, when he replied, he sounded as if he wasn’t being questioned over making an unapproved, hostile thing that he then had to kill to stop. He sounded like he was saying, _oh, the storm? Yes, it should blow over soon._

What he said was, “It had been an experiment of sorts into the adaptability of merged physiologies. Misguided, clearly, and an absolute failure besides. I can’t honestly tell you what purpose it was to serve.”

Fandaniel’s attention was on the monster’s corpse, her thoughts almost visibly whirling.

It didn’t add up. Ryne wasn’t sure what would happen to Emet-Selch on that revelation, but it probably wasn’t great.

A white-masked Amaurotine, the same which called the thing unpleasant, asked, “When did you make it?”

Emet-Selch directed his gaze toward the monster too. He cocked his head. Then, he shrugged, and turned to the question-asker.

“I can’t recall. It feels like eons ago.” He resumed his perpetual slouch. It did make him appear more harmless, Ryne had to admit. “I never intended for it to escape its containment, let alone find its way again to our midst.”

“You kept it in stasis?” The Amaurotine asked, aghast. “Why ever for?”

“Nostalgia, perhaps.”

“Was it kept here?” Another asked.

“Not intentionally,” Emet-Selch replied, “by me, at least.”

The Amaurotine frowned. “What does that mean? This Tower’s barely a week old.”

At that, Fandaniel changed the subject. “Are there more we should know about?”

Emet-Selch, again, paused. 

Beside Ryne, the Exarch stiffened. 

“A few,” Emet-Selch said, quieter. Contemplative. “But I’ve learned my lesson in leaving them to fate. I’ll deal with them promptly.”

“See that you do,” Fandaniel replied. “I’d accompany you, if you would have me.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “It’s a bit of a walk.”

Fandaniel laughed with a distinct lack of mirth. “Isn’t everything around here?”

Emet-Selch inclined his head.

The Amaurotines, sensing -- or hoping -- whatever strange situation they’d stumbled into had passed, meandered into the room. A few glanced at the Exarch and Ryne, but even those decided to ignore them after taking stock of their harmless position by the dead monster. Swiftly, perhaps with the intention of looking busy and so not needing to deal with the unexpected visitors, the white-masked Amaurotines picked up datapads and beelined for the walls, or stationed themselves around the contraption.

Fandaniel, however, approached the monster’s corpse. She gave the Exarch and Ryne a friendly nod of acknowledgement and a small smile, but then also seemed to forget them as she looked toward the monster.

She made a few complicated motions with her hands. A yellow light enveloped the monster and levitated it an ilm off the ground. After a moment wherein its entire form appeared to shudder and vibrate, it shrunk to a size that fit nicely in the palm of her hand. She waved her hand, and its streaks of green blood dissipated into the air like water vapor over a hot springs. Another wave, and the puddle of green blood that gathered under it disappeared.

The whole process freaked Ryne out a little, but there wasn’t much she could do to stop it, so she kept quiet. If she stepped a bit closer to the Exarch so that their shoulders bumped, neither of them mentioned it.

“I’ll be taking this,” Fandaniel hummed to herself, her spirits lifting as she stuffed the miniaturized monster into a pocket that Ryne hadn’t noticed before. “Then we’re off to-- where, exactly?”

“The lower levels,” Emet-Selch replied, stepping closer to the trio. Then he said, without missing a beat, “Those two would accompany us, as well.”

“Who?” Fandaniel looked over her shoulder at Emet-Selch, then around the room-- before finally settling on the Exarch and Ryne. “-- Oh! Er. Sure. Why?”

“They know this Tower better than we. And, from all accounts, the Exarch has maintained it the longest.”

Fandaniel scrutinized the Exarch. “I’d thought he might be a caretaker type of concept. Him and his match, the fully white-haired one-- I’m sorry, was it Y’shtola? Right. The fluffy bits made me wonder.”

Ryne blinked.

Emet-Selch made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

The Exarch blurted, “Fluffy bits?” -- as said _fluffy bits_ pinned to his head.

“Yes, on your…” Fandaniel motioned toward her head, giving them a big, meaningless smile. “And, ah, your…” Another motion, as if her hand were a tail, although the Exarch still covered his with his robes. “They’re very nice, very cute-looking. -- But you! Are you a caretaker type, Ryne?”

“She is certainly not,” the Exarch said, cold.

“I don’t know what that means,” Ryne admitted, slowly.

“Don’t we have somewhere to be?” Emet-Selch cut in. 

Whether intentional or not, the topic moving away from her status as a _lowly concept_ brought substantial relief.

Fandaniel startled.

“Oh! Yes. We do. To the lower levels! … Aw, wait, I’d just walked up here. Now I’ve got to head back down...”

“My condolences,” Emet-Selch drawled. How _he_ had no trouble teleporting around the Tower or how Fandaniel could do the same, he apparently kept to himself.

Fandaniel grinned and stood with a fake dusting-off of her hands. 

“No, no, we should go. I’d hate to have my team run into more of these things. We’ve definitely no fighters, not like--” a sudden pause and head tilt, “you, Emet-Selch... Where’d you learn the spear trick, anyway? That kind of move isn’t in your usual job description.”

“Saw that, did you?” Emet-Selch murmured. He led the way out of the room without further pause. 

“Sure did!”

Emet-Selch made a non-commital noise. “It’s a basic trick. I recall a professor at Akadaemia Anyder who thought themself very clever for using it to startle dozing undergraduate students…”

“To startle you, you mean?”

“There were others, too.”

“Right, of course.”

“The way they droned could have put anyone to sleep. If only any of us shared their passion for _salt compounds_ , we might have had a chance at paying attention.”

“-- Oh, hah! You’re talking about Professor Lektoras, aren’t you? It was the worst when someone got them started on dissolution...”

Ryne and the Exarch exchanged glances. Emet-Selch would notice them not following and likely would have something to say about it, but Fandaniel probably wouldn’t, and would be happy to let them go if they asked. Except, by the set of the Exarch’s jaw, Ryne knew he didn’t want to leave the two Amaurotines to their own devices down in _his_ Tower’s basement. 

Ryne had to admit, she was curious. With the other options of spending the day being either sitting around the Tower or watching Thancred try not to buzz out of his skin with nervousness at being where they were, she didn’t mind the detour to the lower levels. They hadn’t let her explore down there before; she didn’t imagine she’d have another chance to see what it was Thancred didn’t want her to be around. So, they descended the stairs with the Amaurotines.

**. . .**

Emet-Selch did not purge the containment bays.

He did bid Fandaniel to collect a few for analysis. She hadn’t noticed their potential for life before, so complete had their stasis been. She was happy to have something else to deconstruct in her efforts to better understand the Tower’s creator.

She also had a strange affectation around Emet-Selch that the Exarch would bet was new. She carried a tension in her words, obvious by the set of her shoulders and cadence in her voice, that said she no longer knew what to make of her fellow; that he was acting beyond odd, that he was acting _suspicious_ , and that what she’d learned of the Tower and its origins (carefully cultivated to exclude time-travel) and, most importantly, Emet-Selch’s role in it all, was incomplete at best. 

It was not a revelation in Emet-Selch’s favor. 

The Exarch privately thought, _It’s about time. He needs to be in the hot seat more often._

What would come of it…

He didn’t know. 

Emet-Selch would emerge unscathed as always, he thought. The Ascian’s luck and skill, most frustratingly, assured it.

In the meantime, however, Emet-Selch did not seem to cotton on to his companion’s newfound suspicions. He walked through the lower levels as if he owned the place, and did not see the strangeness in his denial over anything more than a passing recognition of the Tower’s making. He answered Fandaniel’s questions easily and honestly and with the most carefully-cut omissions, which nonetheless left his story full of gaping holes. He recommended repairing broken circuits and switchboards without admitting how he knew what had inadvertently flipped on to allow a monster to wake up and escape.

In other words: he backed himself into a corner.

Watching him and seeing Fandaniel’s perturb grow with every passing comment, the Exarch hoped Emet-Selch would finally, after so many chances and so long, _learn._

Learn that he couldn’t just string people along. Learn he didn’t hold all the cards. Learn others had choices, and those choices would impact him in ways he didn’t account for.

**. . .**

It was a surprise that Emet-Selch left the containment bays as they were.

It had been a surprise that he stepped in to protect them from the monster. They’d had it in hand, but the intervention had been… timely. 

Thancred would’ve had the Exarch’s head if Ryne had re-appeared with fang-marks in her leg. Thancred was already going to have his head for taking her to the lower levels and allowing her within arm’s reach of the containment bays, even if she was in absolutely no danger with him and two Amaurotines in tow.

Yes, it had been surprising for Emet-Selch to exercise some level of compassion for the monsters, and reflexive defensiveness for the two of them.

But one or two drops of good did not a tide turn. The Exarch reminded himself of that, and did not fight the wave of bitterness that gripped his heart.

…

....

…..

It was just a shame it had to be as it was.

Any of it. All of it.

**. . .**

More than anything (and then he knew he was at his lowest, and that he was powerless to fight it), G’raha wanted to go home.


	4. Chapter 4

Across the city, well away from the tower that continued to capture Amaurot’s interest, an undergraduate student of Akadaemia Anyder took a dare that she could make a forty-foot jump from her apartment’s balcony to her friend’s.

Amaurotines were not naturally suited to such long-distance leaps. But a quick -- and favored -- spell bestowed levitation on individuals, making any attempt at quasi-flight a harmless and oft-ridiculous endeavor as the adventurous persons tried to puzzle out the physics behind jumping as a weightless projectile. As very few of the dare-takers took more than a second to think about what they were doing, if indeed they took any time at all, the results were often great fun at parties.

The undergraduate who decided to jump on that night was no different than the countless peers who had attempted before her throughout the Akadaemia’s long tradition of alcohol-fueled idiocy. She denied her ability at first, false modesty shining through. At her friend’s hooting and hollering encouragement, she went _alright, alright!_ and cast the levitation spell upon her feet. Laughing even before she’d started, she pretended to lose her footing on the windowsill-- then righted herself, threw her audience a cocky grin, about-faced, and leapt.

By the laws of physics as applied to levitating objects, her jump was sloppy enough that she should have smacked right into the wall below her friend’s apartment.

Instead, she made it.

Immediately, those at her apartment whooped with the extreme jubilation of the very drunk. Her friend, having been on her target balcony, patted her back with professions that he honestly didn’t think she’d manage it 

So surprised and happy was she, she didn’t notice how her spell warped around her ankles until her friend asked, _Hey, uh, what’s that? Oh, mercy,_ and took a stumbling step away from her, his mouth dropping open in shock.

She asked, _What’s what?_ and then took a peek downward.

For what she saw -- three tiny wings, albeit made more of flesh than feathers and writhing about as if they wanted to escape her ankles -- she did not swallow her scream. 

Neither her nor her friend could banish the things. In fact, any attempt at magic seemed to make them _worse_ , whether that meant they split into more veiny wings or began to wrap and claw up her legs.

As they soon began to burn where they were connected to her, she toppled over and could not find the strength to walk. 

Her friend called the ambulance, then, and she was swiftly rushed to the hospital. The medics in the ambulance learned any infusion of magics, whether from their hands or in salve format, worsened the problem.

In the end, the medics had to manually remove the appendages. 

They’d seen nothing like it before. Though a few thought it a strange and horrifying fluke borne of drunken Akadaemia students letting their creation magics get the better of them, one stubborn medic sent samples immediately to the Bureau of Administration for further analysis.

The Bureau processed the samples at the end of three business days. The clerk who handled the package was at the end of his day’s shift, and could think of nothing but the ice cream he had waiting for him at home. Nonetheless, he dutifully filled out the required documentation for the samples, recording it as levitation magic performed under the influence of an unknown substance that resembled raw mako. 

As the notes indicated the sample had been retrieved from an Akadaemia student, he wrote, _Likely a new party drug_ , and filed the case away without another thought. 

The documentation became one of three dozen filed that day, while the organic samples were incinerated.

Although the undergraduate student would swear up and down to her friends that she hadn’t been that drunk that night, that she’d heard a bone-chilling scream and then it had felt like her creation magics had gone rogue and warped into something that wanted nothing but to consume her— although she never deviated from her story, the incident was deemed gross but forgettable by all others. 

And so it went, unnoticed and unknown.

**. . . .̵̥͝. . .̶̛͋͋̓͠**

“It has been two weeks since that eyesore has appeared on our borders.”

“That’s a bit harsh, Nabriales. It’s not the ugliest thing that has been summoned into this city.”

“It is the most mysterious. Fandaniel and Emet-Selch, has there truly been no progress into understanding its purpose?”

“There’s been progress, it’s just…”

“Inconclusive.”

“-- Yes, as Emet-Selch says. Inconclusive.”

Fourteen chairs. All occupied. All once familiar. 

All _still_ familiar. Elidibus sat at the highest point. Lahabrea, to his left. The Fourteenth, to his right.

The sight set Emet-Selch’s teeth on edge. He reminded himself that this Fourteenth, Fandaniel, had not yet left them in a lurch mere moments before the Final Days. But she had the makings of her rebellion-- her stubbornness, her fascination with non-Amaurotines, her need to _understand._

She was a threat. He knew this down to the very last drop of his soul. 

… And yet.

_And yet._

He could do nothing. 

_You choose to do nothing,_ an old voice snarled at him. _She is a threat to our cause. Remove her._

It sounded, ironically, like Elidibus. As if to manifest the voice in his thoughts, the true voice of Elidibus said: “Have you more to say on the matter, Emet-Selch?”

Automatically, he responded: “Is there more you expect me to say, Elidibus?”

“...”

Emet-Selch let his eyes close, and forced himself to take a breath.

This was not the Elidibus he had grown to know so infuriatingly well. This was, somehow, a much younger Elidibus. A leader, yes, but-- an inexperienced one. An untested one. A kinder one, because he could afford to be.

Such qualities were incompatible with the Elidibus he knew. Just thinking them made his skin crawl. 

“I have nothing to add,” he said, to distract himself from his thoughts as well as the heavy weight of thirteen other, _whole_ Amaurotines' attention, “save my apology. The lack of progress on the Tower has been infuriating, to say the least.”

“I would imagine so,” Elidibus responded kindly, ever the diplomat.

“There are rumors regarding the Tower’s origins, Emet-Selch. Have you heard them?”

“-- Lahabrea,” Elidibus warned, “I bid that you mind your words carefully.”

“I always do.” Lahabrea sat forward in his chair, his hands gripping the ends of his armrests. Emet-Selch did not flinch under his regard. “They say you aided in the tower’s creation, Emet-Selch.”

“So I have heard,” he said coolly. 

Aloof. Distant. Everything around him, at almost all hours of the day, seemed to occur behind a pane of glass. It was not entirely a new sensation over his many, many years, but it had never before inspired such bubbling discomfort in his chest. This was the Convocation gathered in the midst of Amaurot’s limitless success. He belonged with them. He _would always_ belong with them. 

He had to. If not them, then where else?

_Has it been everything you imagined?_

What a ridiculous question.

Impatient with his silence, Lahabrea asked: “Do you deny it?”

He tapped a finger on the armrest, buying himself a second’s worth of time.

What were they discussing? His mind had wandered, as it seemed wont to do over the last two weeks… Or, more accurately, over the past millennia-- which explained why it wandered so far now. The daydreaming was simply a bad habit that had grown out of control. It needed to be scaled back now that there was no reason for him to indulge so.

Ah, yes. The tower. Had he built it. Would he deny his hand in its creation.

“I will admit that traces of my design linger in its walls.” 

At that, Lahabrea sat back. A hint of surprise drifted from him and others, settling as a taste of lightning in the room’s air.

Emet-Selch double-checked his own soul remained walled up tight, and continued smoothly, his voice and face neutral, “But I did not intend its presence on the edge of our city. That is the result of work beyond my scope or, indeed, my ability.”

“Why did you not share this before?” Fandaniel asked. She sounded, Emet-Selch thought, _hurt._ “It’s been two weeks since its arrival. We’ve been working nonstop on it-- that you had a hand in its creation would have been incredibly helpful to know!”

He had planned on sharing his involvement at some point, although this was ahead of schedule. No matter. A bigger threat loomed in the horizon, and it was perhaps best to have the trifling tower addressed before then. 

As thoughts of the Final Days guaranteed a tumble into a distracted spiral, he forcibly re-orientated himself to the discussion at hand.

The Tower and its occupants were fine as they were. The same impulse to destroy the Fourteenth demanded he extinguish the mortals before they got in the way, but he did not see the need. They would prove useful, or their naturally short lifespan would remove them for him. It would be a disappointment when they died so soon, but there was never anything to be done for _that._

(He wondered what had come of their Warrior of Light, but until she showed her face again, he would not spare her disappointing fate a second thought.)

To Fandaniel, he said, “I wished not to misrepresent my understanding of the situation. I am as in the dark as the rest of you.”

“But by admission, you had a hand in the tower’s design,” she exclaimed. “I need your notes! However warped the final product became and unintended your involvement, your efforts may have laid the foundation.”

They had.

“My notes are nothing more than what you’ve already recovered, I assure you,” he said.

“Did your notes have to do with those monsters in the basement?”

“No,” he answered, honest.

“The monsters,” Mitron murmured, “one of which awoke without any of our knowledge, and dozens of others which may yet do the same?”

That was far overstating the situation, he thought, and made it sound as if they were buffoons who would allow havoc to salivate at their door without check.

He said, “We’ve secured the premises.”

“For now.”

“No, no, he’s right,” Fandaniel said, “the monsters aren’t the problem.” 

The surprise in the air sharpened to skepticism. 

Nabriales said, “The tower sits so close to our residential districts, and you claim they aren’t the problem?”

Fandaniel made to explain, but Lahabrea cut in before she could. 

“There stands a more important point. Why did you conceal your involvement with the tower, Emet-Selch?“

He frowned, a bit thrown by the question. Surely Lahabrea had heard him.

“I concealed nothing relevant to the investigation.” Because it was not the Tower’s appearance which mattered, it was its passengers -- himself very included.

“It appears Emet-Selch has become our wordsmith,” Igeyorhm noted idly.

Emet-Selch turned his frown toward her. 

A _jab_ , at _him_. What for?

“This discussion is getting out of hand,” Elidibus said then. The air calmed, the skepticism and surprise and suspicion blanketed by his intention that they all _take a few moments to collect themselves._ “We are accomplishing nothing of use to our brethren by bickering. If the Analyst and Architect have finished their reports, I would call our adjournment until next week’s meeting.”

None opposed. None necessarily agreed, either.

“Fandaniel,” Elidibus said as most began to collect their belongings and disperse back their duties, “a moment, if you would? I’ve received word of a matter which may interest you.”

“Ooh, another? Certainly!” She chirped, the meeting’s poor atmosphere apparently shrugged off. 

Emet-Selch found himself lingering in his chair longer than the majority of the others, mentally running through what had just transpired. It felt he’d misstepped at some point, but he couldn’t rightly pinpoint where. Truly, the others were lucky he did not tell them outright of what the near future held. They would panic, as they all had on first brush with the End, and tear themselves apart when what they needed was to join together. They would likely not even believe him without proof-- of which he kept a sharp eye open for, fully aware the universe’s world-ending disease was due in less than a year (or sooner, if he accepted that they really had done their best to collectively ignore its presence as long as they could during that first go-around). 

But if this was how they reacted to even the slightest implication that he hadn’t told them everything immediately…

There was much to think about. Much to plan.

They needed Zodiark. If they could summon Him before Amaurot was the last stronghold left, perhaps He would accept an offering of others’ souls to lend him the strength needed to halt the Doom.

Or, with more time and more minds put to the task, perhaps there was an option other than Zodiark.

(Likely not. But, maybe.)

So lost was he in his thoughts, he did not catch how the others avoided him after the meeting. 

So lost did he continue to be in his thoughts as he finally dragged himself from his chair and out of the Convocation building, he did not realize where his feet took him until the Tower’s all-too-familiar energies brushed against his soul’s walls.

When he did realize, he snapped back to the present with a scowl up at the big blue monolith.

The damned thing took his ire without response. If it ever _did_ respond, he would worry for the state of his mind.

 _Well_ , he decided, feeling oddly cornered into the matter and greatly agitated as a result, _as long as I’m here. I may as well compile sufficient documentation to soothe Fandaniel’s panic._

The work -- surrounded by the Tower’s indifferent presence, the pinpricks of shallow awareness that were the mortals scurrying about not so many rooms away -- was routine and, in its own way, soothing. He let his mind drift on the issue of guiding Amaurot through the coming Doom, and found it an easier problem to plan for without the Convocation members regarding him with borderline mutiny.

In the end, he decided the first he’d need to tell was Hythlodaeus. He had a way with others that kept them from running scared or startling at bad news. It was a trick Emet-Selch had never been able to learn, but would always appreciate.

That, at least, hadn’t changed.

**. . .**

Hythlodaeus quickly learned that the concepts-- no, _mortals_ , they were living creatures with their own souls-- were great fun.

A few of them, particularly the prickly, hyper-aware Thancred and Alisaie, still regarded his presence with skepticism. Others, however, were not so picky. Alphinaud and Urianger were happy to pick his thoughts over this or that intellectual quandary, and especially sought his help with unraveling the Amaurotine methods of communication, whether verbal, written or otherwise. 

Their souls were too small to handle true connection without Hythlodaeus worrying about irreparably damaging them, but their minds withstood a link quite well in short bursts. Although overexposure left them exhausted and hurting in a way not easily remedied, Alphinaud and Urianger seemed to enjoy the challenge and experience. It was a strange but delightful thing to feel their determination to fix a problem and the subsequent elation in reaching answers. Every time, their emotions far outsized their appearance.

Over the two weeks since the tower’s appearance, Hythlodaeus took to visiting the mortals between his work and social obligations. Nabriales had sent him a strongly worded email urging him to stay away from the tower lest the media get any ideas about favoritism among the Convocation. As _that_ cat was well out of the bag, Hythlodaeus had deleted the email immediately. 

At the moment, Hythlodaeus stood in the mortals' kitchen. The appliances were in miniature, which was also strangely delightful, but the room itself was -- as all in the tower -- massive enough to rival the most impressive Amaurot convention centers. He and the one known as Y’shtola imbued cup after cup of tea with select magical properties, which Alphinaud and Urianger then drank to test. 

The way Y’shtola wove magics impressed Hythlodaeus. She had no natural talent for it; indeed, what she did could hardly even be called magic. She required Hythlodaeus to summon ingredients for brewing, and had to mix them just so before they were effective. Yet, her tea did well at turning Urianger’s hair blue when she so decided it should. 

“I am not mistaken to believe this shall wash out?” he asked at the end of that round, tugging on one of his newly blue bangs.

“To be safe, I’ll brew one to remove it now,” Y’shtola had replied, and asked Hythlodaeus to summon the ingredients to do just that.

“Canst the next batch resemble peppermint more than dust, perchance?”

“I’m afraid my supplier is all out of peppermint,” she said with a light lilt to her voice.

“Fresh out, yes,” Hythlodaeus said with all due solemnity.

“How unfortunate the timing,” Alphinaud commented with a smile.

“How fares the stock of honey?”

Y’shtola hummed noncommittally. “I think he can manage that.”

“For thy generosity, I thank thee,” Urianger told him.

Hythlodaeus huffed a laugh, and duly summoned a tiny jar of honey.

Alphinaud, as the careful cataloguer of their experiments, said: “Right. After the blue remover, we have… oh, dear. Another attempt at transfiguration.”

“Into what?” Y’shtola asked. “I thought we struck those off after the chocobo disaster.”

Urianger rubbed a hand over his arms. It’d taken a while to pluck out all the yellow feathers. Hythlodaeus still felt a little bad, although he’d been proud to have gotten the right texture without even knowing the animal it was based on.

“It technically qualifies as the creation of an additional appendage, rather than full transfiguration.” Alphinaud looked at him. “Hythlodaeus, do you know what a moogle is?”

He did not.

“Perhaps we shall leave that for another day, then,” Alphinaud murmured, hurriedly scribbling a note in his little black-backed journal.

Y’shtola’s mixtures were unlike anything Hythlodaeus had seen. If any scholars dabbled in the ideas of natural magics borne from the ground, it was undoubtedly a niche and theoretical area best suited for the shelter of academia. 

In comparison to her dedication, he felt his teas lacked. Arrive though they might after only brief concentration and a wave of the hand over the kettle, perform though they did every task perfectly (so long as he didn’t fear his lack of knowledge regarding their biology rendered his magics unsafe, whereupon he demonstrated the teas on himself instead), it wasn’t as rewarding to see his work. It was definitely nothing like seeing Y’shtola’s teas finally take effect after hours of testing and retesting and reforming and retesting, such as in one memorable experiment to produce a tea which allowed the drinker to see colors beyond their eyes’ usual capabilities.

As Urianger was sipping on the tea Y’shtola brewed to take the blue from his hair-- or, more accurately, to add back the silver-- Alisaie and the Exarch entered the kitchen. 

The day must have been a good one, as Alisaie not only greeted Hythlodaeus, but asked him what they were doing. Once he explained, she immediately asked Y’shtola for a few of the recipes-- mostly regarding sleeping and calming draughts. Considering the tired slope to a few of the mortals’ shoulders and the fact Hythlodaeus rarely found them sleeping no matter what time he arrived, he supposed it was a fair question.

After Y’shtola promised to draw her up a list of recipes while Alphinaud asked _who_ she planned on foisting those teas on (and, relatedly, the doctrine of consent) and summarily went ignored, Alisaie turned her attention to Hythlodaeus.

She asked, quite to-the-point and with no little frustration (as though tea-talk had reminded her of just how bored they’d all gotten), “It’s been weeks since we’ve arrived. When will your people let us venture out?”

The question was not unexpected. In fact, Alphinaud had subtly and not-so-subtly asked the same almost every day Hythlodaeus had visited. In the last two days, in fact, he’d requested maps of Amaurot and the lands beyond its borders-- which Hythlodaeus had of course granted, if only to see how these tiny, determined creatures thought they could navigate the world outside the tower. It had to vary so much from the version they knew.

“Unfortunately, I have no control over that,” he said, as it seemed an important first step to make known. Before her expression could fall too far, he added, “But it must be soon. I see no purpose in restricting your movement, save for your protection.”

“I thought you were peaceful people,” she said, an accusatory edge in her voice that he did not fully understand the origin of.

Ignoring it, he nodded. “And we are. But I fear, as you all have witnessed, we can also be a people blind to those unlike us.”

Alisaie held his gaze steadily, but the others around her exchanged pointed glances.

Their souls were too different for him to ascertain their exact feelings. Their minds, they would know if he tapped into. Their expressions, although unmasked, were riddled with tiny curves and wrinkles and nuances that he struggled to entirely read. Even deafened so, however, he was sure their glances shared among them something like: _no shit, Hythlodaeus._

It was amazing how they could communicate without words, thoughts, or merging. 

He wished he was in on it, if only to explain that, hey, they were all trying their best. This had never happened before.

It was then he felt his friend portal into the room adjacent. How Hades teleported so confidently through the tower’s turbulent aether, Hythlodaeus didn’t know. It didn’t matter-- within seconds, Hades reached out to find his mind and, once successful, sent him an insistent pulse of _I need to speak with you._

Aside from the desire to meet, Hades was blank as a still pond. 

And just like with still waters, Hythlodaeus feared stepping directly into a lizard’s waiting maw.

Still, he would not refuse Hades. It was increasingly clear that his friend hadn’t told him the entire truth, or even the most important truths, of the future. While Hythlodaeus could guess the news wasn’t good-- especially as Hades seemed particularly concerned with an event looming in the near future, possibly even within the year-- and even considered that the news might potentially even be terrible, he knew not its shape beyond that.

Thus he sent back a quick _I’ll be there_ thought to Hades, and said to the mortals, “I apologize, but I must attend to a matter sooner than I thought.”

He and Hades’ communication hadn’t taken more than a second. The mortals hadn’t even finished their exasperated glance-sharing over Amaurot’s insensitivity.

Yet the Exarch asked, “Emet-Selch is here, isn’t he? Will you be seeing him?” -- except he clearly knew the answer, and it was more a test of how Hythlodaeus would reply than a polite inquiry.

Somewhat startled, Hythlodaeus said, “Yes and yes, in fact.”

He then almost asked _how do you know?_ \-- except he clearly could see the unnatural crystal creeping up the mortal’s cheek, and the unnatural crystal spreading under his neckline, and it would have been a question that was liable to bring attention to a situation improper for Hythlodaeus to comment upon. The other mortals did not comment on it, but they didn’t _not_ comment on it.

Why the Exarch was the one to be merged with the tower was a choice Hythlodaeus would like to understand, but not one to ask so soon into their knowing each other. 

“He’s really your friend, huh?” Alisaie drew him from his contemplation of the Exarch’s state. She gave him a strange look as she asked her question.

Alphinaud grimaced. 

Alisaie shrugged at him. “It’s a fair question.”

“Somehow,” Y’shtola said, “he’s that lucky. Well, don’t let us hold you back, Hythlodaeus.”

He inclined his head in thanks, unsure of how to address their tension with Hades without opening a discussion he wasn’t entirely prepared for.

He bid his temporary good-bye, and removed himself from the kitchen soon after that. 

Hades fortunately waited not far away in what the mortals called an Ocular, even though it was clearly a foyer. When Hythlodaeus arrived, he gave his friend -- whose soul and mind were, indeed, locked up tight from discernment -- a welcoming smile. Hades inclined his head in formal, stiff greeting.

That was when Hythlodaeus knew for certain that whatever Hades had to tell him would be no good at all.

His suspicions on what could have happened within the last twelve hours since they saw each other rose, but he wanted to give Hades the chance to explain first.

“You wished to meet?”

“I haven’t been entirely forthcoming,” Hades replied, slowly.

If they had been linked, Hythlodaeus would have given him the mental equivalent of a flick to the ear. _No shit_ , he thought, reminded abruptly of the mortals’ shared glances.

Unfortunately, it was not a time for amusement. Hades was clearly in turmoil over whatever news he had. Hythlodaeus did a quick sweep of their immediate surroundings, and unsurprisingly found them barren of another soul. The closest were the mortals’, and they hadn’t budged from the kitchen. Fandaniel’s team were too far up in the tower to be sensed, and Fandaniel herself had yet to return from her meeting with Elidibus (which Hythlodaeus only knew because Fandaniel had accidentally copied him onto her email to her team updating them to such).

Hythlodaeus waited him out in patient quiet. Hades could be like a stubborn tortoise: set to his own pace and impossible to speed up without his say-so.

“In five months,” he finally continued, “there will be reports from our neighbors of a malignant disease spreading rapidly through the planet’s lesser species. We will call it the terminus virus.”

That definitely didn’t sound great.

The terminus virus, but also, _lesser species?_ Such an archaic term, Hythlodaeus couldn’t believe it came from Hades’ mouth.

Hades wasn’t done.

“Two months after that, the Fourteenth will witness it firsthand, and we will finally understand--”

He cut himself off. 

Patience Hythlodaeus may have had in spades, but he was no mountain awaiting a river to weather him into a canyon. He frowned and prompted, “Understand what?”

“Hythlodaeus! -- I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but can I steal Emet-Selch for a moment?”

A lash of deep, vicious frustration burst from Hades’ mental shields. It caused Hythlodaeus to flinch, sudden as it and the voice was.

Fandaniel -- the Fourteenth, though she had no idea she’d just been discussed -- paused where she stood, a good three footsteps into the Ocular. She regarded Hythlodaeus with a mix of concern and uncertainty. Hades had kept himself from lashing at her, it seemed. How lucky for Hythlodaeus.

“Certainly,” Emet-Selch said, smooth as ever. As if he hadn’t experienced an irrational spike of anger at his fellow’s mere presence. As if he hadn’t just been about to tell Hythlodaeus about a _terminus virus._ “I apologize, Hythlodaeus. We will have to continue our conversation another time.”

The time travel was still a secret from the others. Hythlodaeus continued to disagree vehemently with that choice, but it was not his secret to tell. And so, burying his concern and attempting to project calm to Fandaniel, he told Hades, absolutely sincere: “Soon, hopefully.”

“Yes,” Hades said, giving him that reassurance, at least, “very soon. I can’t imagine this will take long, Fandaniel?”

Fandaniel wavered.

“Er… Actually, it might. I ran a bit behind in telling you-- there was a sale, you see, at the coffee shop, and I-- well, anyway-- now we risk being late for our train.”

Hades froze, as did Hythlodaeus.

“Our train?” Hades sounded honestly caught off guard. Honestly baffled. Hythlodaeus didn’t realize until then that it had been two long weeks since he’d heard his friend react with such pure sincerity. “To where?”

“Diateichisma.” Fandaniel gave him a wan smile, aware enough of how out-of-the-blue and sudden the request was to feel contrite. “Over the last few months, their perimeter line has been breached repeatedly by unusually hostile wildlife. The town requested aid as well as a refund from their security fence’s manufacturers. Elidibus wants us and the concepts to take the trip, repair any malfunctioning defenses, ensure the town doesn’t sue for breach of warranty, and make sure the wildlife haven’t accidentally evolved beyond their intended use.”

“The concepts?” Hades echoed. “While they’d make a nice snack for monsters, what else does he hope to have them accomplish on this trip?”

“Not to mention sending two Convocation members for so trifling an issue seems like overkill,” Hythlodaeus noted.

“I think he also wants us to spread good will and, uh, stretch our legs,” Fandaniel waved her hands about, “since we’ve been cooped up here and the aether’s pretty crazy, so we need some time away. And the town does need help, so. Two birds, one stone, all that.”

Hades stared at her, his thoughts churning in obvious confusion.

Hythlodaeus couldn’t help but do the same. Fandaniel and Emet-Selch, spread good will? That was Elidibus’ job, or failing him, Lahabrea’s. As that was a cover for Elidibus’ true intent too blatant to even remark upon, he asked instead, echoing Hades, “Why must you take the concepts?” 

“I’ll be honest, that part’s my innovation.” Fandaniel gave him a grin. “They seemed restless, and honestly, I’d like to see how they do outside of this place. So! It’s really like three birds, one stone.” 

She then fished her phone from her pocket, checked a message on it, and nearly jumped a foot in the air. 

“Oh, jeez, okay, we’ve really got to get going! Emet-Selch, do you know where the concepts are? Do they have anything they need to bring? -- What am I saying, we can take care of their needs, we just need to get them rounded up pronto… If we miss this train, we’ll have to take the sleeper car. I don’t care what Amautrak says, their beds have _not_ gotten better.” 

“I’ll fetch them,” Hythlodaeus offered quickly, not wanting to imagine how they might react to Emet-Selch demanding them to move out with so little notice. Their odd dynamic wouldn’t make that go well, he just knew it. “All of them, correct?”

Her mouth scrunched. “Actually… We only need--”

“It’s all or none with them,” Emet-Selch drawled, his aura smoothing out as his mind undoubtedly turned to the unexpected mission.

“-- Uh, right. All, then, I guess!”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry,” Fandaniel called to him, “we’re on the clock! Now, Emet, you have an overnight bag in your apartment, don’t you…?”

Vicious, bitter amusement seeped from the edges of Hades’ mental shields. It felt oily, sick, and wrong, and almost made Hythlodaeus stumble in his retreat to the kitchen. Although Hades quickly reeled himself back in, the texture stuck to the back of Hythlodaeus’ throat.

Maybe time away breathing in the fresh air wouldn’t be the worst, he thought. Hades obviously needed to unwind.

If only they’d had the chance to finish their conversation. Whatever it was would have to wait; there was no way this new, evasive Hades would speak on the matter with Fandaniel within earshot. 

Now if only Hythlodaeus could shake the feeling that it _couldn’t_ wait. 

Terminus virus, had he said…? Viruses rarely appeared without warning. Perhaps he could do his own research while Hades took care of his Elidibus-assigned errand.


	5. Chapter 5

“Is that a _plateau?_ ”

“Why did you say it with that strange emphasis? We’ve seen plateaus before.”

“Not ones that resemble massive tree stumps!”

“Oh,” Fandaniel chirped from her seat behind him, “those _are_ tree stumps! They’re from a species long extinct, thankfully. A botanist recreated a miniature version fit for a home a while ago. They usually come in these little trays; it’s very cute.”

“Were they poisonous?”

“No, no. It was just, can you imagine dodging one if it were to fall unexpectedly?” Fandaniel shook her head and shuddered. “No ‘timber’ would be loud enough to warn everyone.”

Alphinaud supposed. 

If the trees were so big, their bugs must have been awful, too. 

That was a better reason to be thankful for their extinction. But what he said was, “All the same. They must have been quite impressive,” and he pressed his face back to the window. 

Alisaie had made fun of him for leaving fingerprint and nose-print smudges on the glass, but it was hardly his fault that the Amaurotines hadn’t made the seats or tables in the car tall enough for him to stand on and see out of the windows. He had to balance precariously on the two-foot-length’s worth of sill. Such a position required clinging! It wasn’t embarrassing, it was necessary.

Alisaie had joined him within a minute of him exclaiming over a field of radiant blue flowers that passed by. As she had to cling too, he counted the whole thing a win for him.

None of them had suspected Hythlodaeus to return to the kitchen and immediately inform them that they were all wanted for a trip. _All_ included Thancred and Ryne, who the Exarch had to personally fetch from where Thancred had apparently been taking a nap and Ryne had been infusing more of his gunblade’s cartridges with the requisite magics. Hythlodaeus hadn’t been able to tell them much about what to expect, except that they’d want to pack bags for a week’s absence from the Tower and that they’d need to keep an eye on Emet-Selch for him.

 _He is under the weather, I think,_ had been all Hythlodaeus said on that. 

For an Amaurotine, he was rather tuned-in to their feelings on certain matters. That he’d asked _them_ to keep an eye on Emet-Selch was a testament both to his loyalty to his friend and his concern over whatever had tipped him off to Emet-Selch being one minor inconvenience from a much-needed and much-deserved breakdown.

… Or so Alisaie would say.

By the Ascian’s needlessly flippant commentary interspersed with what Alphinaud swore was him _dozing off_ , Alisaie might’ve been on to something.

Regardless. When Hythlodaeus told them they were going on a trip and then Fandaniel told them they were to ride a train, Alphinaud hadn’t been sure what to expect.

An eight-hour journey by so-called high speed rail in a room hardly big enough to fit four Amaurotines, let alone five Scions, two honorary Scions and two supervising Amaurotine chaperones, was not what Alphinaud had expected.

The two Amaurotines took side-by-side seats on one side. All Scions took side-against-side seats on the other. The two groups instantly regretted their choice, as it left them staring at each other without distraction.

The tension had been so thick, Alphinaud could have jumped on it.

Fandaniel made a few valiant efforts to break it, but she ran out of steam after she’d finished describing their task in Diateichisma. Emet-Selch would repair any malfunctions in the defenses, while she and they looked into why the local wildlife, a subset of wood nymph meant to regulate forest sizes, were expanding their territory into the town. Diateichisma was a small village by Amaurotine standards, and specialized in raising livestock whose prized fleece were difficult to recreate artificially. The nymphs had taken especial umbridge with the livestock, frequently pillaging their pens and stealing them away into the night.

Alphinaud had balked at that. “They don’t eat or kill the livestock?”

“Nymphs need only water, air, and sunlight to survive. I don’t know what they’re doing with the livestock, but they definitely are targeting them.”

Urianger noted, “These nymphs sound sentient.” Squashed between him and Thancred, Y’shtola nodded.

“Well, that’s a bit far, but they’re capable of the basic logic necessary for short-term planning.”

Alphinaud exchanged glances with Urianger.

So, the nymphs were sentient. 

Loathe to tread into waters which would make the ride even more uncomfortable, conversation stalled out after that. 

Fortunately, the city-scape and city-adjacent -- _suburbs_ , Fandaniel called them -- scenery passed by quickly. Once more interesting landscapes came into view, Alphinaud, Alisaie and Ryne were happy to stand on the windowsill and make running commentary about the strange fixtures they passed. Their new positions gave Thancred the room to stretch out and resume his interrupted nap, although Alphinaud was sure he wasn’t catching a wink; Urianger, tall enough not to need to stand on the windowsill, watched for a while, but took mostly to philosophizing in response to Y’shtola’s questions about any odd aether she sensed them pass by. Y’shtola made her questions more and more outrageous after she realized Urianger very often had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, just to see if he’d still answer. Because he was Urianger and he would not be so easily deterred, he did-- much to Fandaniel’s (and the other Scions’) amusement.

Upright and unmoving though he remained, Emet-Selch continued to doze.

It was almost impressive. Alphinaud had mastered a similar trick during his more boring and early-morning classes at the Studium, but not for more than ten minute naps at a time.

Bit by bit, they became too distracted to be tense. There was only so long they could remain apprehensive of Amaurotines in general or Emet-Selch in particular, no matter how their past experiences insisted nothing good could come from leaving an Ascian to his own devices.

And anyway, after two weeks seeing nothing but the interior of the Tower, the train ride was a feast for hungry eyes. 

Even the Exarch joined them on the windowsill and admired the scenery, though he seemed more interested in wandering the train than looking out of it. Considering his adventurer’s heart, it wasn’t too surprising.

Fandaniel was not shy in telling him how bad of an idea wandering around was. The Amaurotines wouldn’t know what to do when confronted with stray concept-looking mortals, and Fandaniel herself wasn’t sure how she’d explain why or how they had souls in a way that wouldn’t cause much trouble for the Convocation upon their return.

The continued containment was grating, but understandable. At least they weren’t being unmade, or whatever Amaurotines thought they needed to do when confronted with intelligent species that they hadn’t made themselves.

“Surely you can simply pretend we’re your servants?” The Exarch pressed. He stood on the floor after dropping down from the windowsill.

“There’s really nothing interesting to see, I promise,” Fandaniel returned, heading toward her wit’s end after more then twenty minutes of the Exarch tossing her increasingly absurd methods of them leaving the room. “It’s just what you see here repeated ten times over. Sometimes there’s a room with a toilet or shower instead, but otherwise, it’s all the same.”

The Exarch’s ears wiggled in poorly contained excitement. “Speaking of the restroom, I…”

“W-what? No! You’d fall in!” Fandaniel cried immediately. “Absolutely not. -- Right? You don’t really--?”

Perhaps sensing disaster, the Exarch swapped tracks. “Will it be like this once we reach the town?”

“Like what?”

“You’ll need to supervise our every step?”

“I mean,” Fandaniel hedged, “for your safety, yes. This is a business trip, not a vacation.”

The Exarch didn’t overtly react beyond a small nod, but Alphinaud saw how his excitement drained from him. Soon after processing the answer, the Exarch retook his seat by Thancred’s feet.

Thancred, proving he definitely hadn’t slept a wink, turned onto his back and kicked his feet up onto the Exarch’s lap. The Exarch awkwardly settled his arms over his shins in a move that, if it were anyone else, Alphinaud would have called a sulk. On the Exarch, he just looked sad, like someone told him there would never be another Starlight Celebration, ever.

“There will be plenty to do and see…” Fandaniel said, but glanced around at the rest of them in a silent beseechment for help. “You won’t be bored…”

By the time they arrived and the task began, Alphinaud imagined the Exarch’s energy would already be flagging. That he couldn’t stray from the Tower for long was well-known among them. Out of respect, they’d kept the fact quiet from the Amaurotines. Probably, the Exarch was thinking about how he’d need to limit himself if they really were to be gone for an entire week. Privately, Alphinaud wondered if the Exarch could even last so long; but out of a similar respect as keeping quiet about his particularized weaknesses, he did not feel it right to ask.

“Let them explore,” Emet-Selch said then, “that they might stop clogging the air with their petulance for one mere moment.” 

Alphinaud startled, blinking back into the room and away from where he’d fixated blindly on the horizon line. 

After a second, Emet-Selch added, “The worst that could happen _is_ them falling into a toilet.”

“Or us getting questions we can’t answer,” Fandaniel shot back immediately.

Emet-Selch didn’t even open his eyes. “Then we don’t answer. I would hardly call that a difficult situation.” 

Fandaniel wavered.

She looked over to them. All of them looked back, curious about the train beyond their room if not the exchange happening in front of them. Even Y’shtola had her head cocked to catch their words better.

When Fandaniel blew out a breath, Alphinaud thought, _strange play, Emet-Selch. But I won’t say no._

Fandaniel said, “If Nabriales gets word of this… He’s already got too much ammunition on us for this whole mess.”

Emet-Selch laced his fingers together in his lap, and shifted to, possibly, get more comfortable. “Let him bleat. He’ll wear himself out eventually.”

Fandaniel eyed Emet-Selch with a sharper frown than she’d ever before displayed. Predictably, it bounced off Emet-Selch’s impenetrable shield of closed-eyed indifference.

But then she looked back to them, and her frown might as well have been a trick of light, it faded so quickly. 

“Alright, alright,” she said. “But if you have absolutely any trouble, just-- oh, you can’t link, can you? Hm. Okay, let me make a short-range transmitter connected to my phone… If you have _any_ trouble, you press it right away, and we’ll come bail you out. Okay?”

That wasn’t difficult to agree with in the least. 

Thancred and Y’shtola had no interest in wandering the train, but the rest of them absolutely did. Thancred gave Alphinaud -- and, really, all of them -- a _Look_ when Ryne’s back was turned, which put sufficient fear of the Twelve in Alphinaud about what would happen if they did happen upon trouble and didn’t immediately send word his way. 

As it turned out, Fandaniel’s description of the train held true: it was mostly rows of empty (or closed) train rooms within excessively large train cars, with the occasional bathroom or shower. But there was also a dining car which hosted a few distracted Amaurotines reading their datapads or chatting in their strange, multilayered language with one another. They and their brightly colored drinks and huge plates of gorgeous-looking food, prepared by white-aproned Amaurotines, made for excellent people-watching. Even better was that most didn’t notice them-- and once they did, after the initial bout of confusion and obvious staring, they seemed to decide that the little soul-bearing concepts weren’t for them and so ignored them. 

Unlike in Emet-Selch’s shade-filled Amaurot, the Scions did not try to engage them. 

Well.

That had been the plan up until they spotted some of the more palatable looking dishes.

The Exarch, supported immediately by Alisaie, got it in his head to order food for them to try.

As there was clearly a counter behind which stood a food-server, that was who the Exarch and Alisaie approached.

When they cheerfully asked what the ‘fine-smelling green dish over there’ was, however, the white-aproned Amaurotine stuttered and sputtered, looking around and over her shoulder. She asked, “Not to be rude, but do you have a method of payment?” When the Exarch responded with a _not on us, but_ , she asked them who they were ordering _for._ Before they could reply, she seemed to suffer an unfortunate epiphany and exclaimed, “You’re those concepts with Fandaniel and Emet--?!” 

Other Amaurotines’ hoods shifted in their direction. Very, very obviously.

She smacked a hand over her mouth, almost jostling her all-white mask off. Not looking around, she stiffly nodded to them and thereafter excused herself entirely from the car, as though in a fit of embarrassment.

The other Amaurotines turned back to their dishes and datapads and distractions. How they ignored them felt less like a choice of ignorance and uncertainty, and more like a desperate attempt to distance themselves from a rotten ill plopped unpleasantly in their midst.

“I’d hoped to try that alarmingly green dish…” The Exarch murmured, disappointed. 

“Me too,” Ryne sighed. “It smelled good.”

“These Amaurotines certainly are jumpy,” Alisaie muttered. “They need to get out more.”

“It is somewhat a relief to find bigotry was not invented in our people’s lifetimes,” Alphinaud noted.

“History across two worlds hast informed us that miserable fact,” Urianger said, and waved them all to an empty table that wasn’t _too_ humiliatingly tall to climb. “I shan’t say their behavior hast been unexpected.”

**. . .**

When the sun dipped on the horizon -- a sight Ryne admitted she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to, her tone hushed and awed -- and they finally left the dining room car behind, they returned to a peculiar situation.

Thancred had actually fallen asleep, his hands folded on his chest and his head propped on Y’shtola’s lap. Y’shtola herself fiddled with a miniaturized glass datapad, poking and tapping at it much the same as the Amaurotines did. A white cord ran from it to one of her ears. When they arrived at the door’s threshold, its panel sliding automatically upon sensing their approach, she looked up in their direction and gave them a small smile, then raised one finger to her mouth in the classic _keep quiet_ gesture. 

Fandaniel was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t too concerning.

Emet-Selch was there. That would've been the opposite of concerning, except he didn’t look like the Emet-Selch of the last two weeks. 

He looked like the Emet-Selch as they knew him better: the late Garlemald emperor in his royal robes, absurd golden medals and ridiculously furred collar and all.

On first glance, he appeared to be asleep like Thancred. On second and third, he remained so, which surprised Alphinaud more than his shift in form.

“What is it?” Y’shtola asked quietly, her smile fading as she picked up on the discomfort in their unmoving silence and collective spike in uncertainty. She took the white cord from her ear, lowered the datapad -- it was about the size of her head -- to her side and placed it on the bench. The tinny scratch of what sounded suspiciously like music emitted from its cord.

But of course, Y’shtola wouldn’t notice a mere physical difference. 

So that was, in fact, the same Emet-Selch. Just… much smaller.

Surprised as he was, Alphinaud blurted, “Nothing! Absolutely nothing. All was fine across the train.”

Thancred woke with a start, jerking upright and reaching to where he habitually kept his gunblade. Fortunately it was packed away under the bench with the rest of their hastily-cobbled-together bags, as his gaze jumped from Alphinaud (with a glimmer of confusion) to Ryne (relief) and then Emet-Selch (no more relief, but a bit of confusion again).

Across from him, Emet-Selch leaned forward to squint down at them. Without his mask, it was much easier to observe the tells they’d learned while he’d followed their party around. The groggy squint mixed with vague confusion, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was waiting for them to do or why he had to be awake for it but that if he’d just wait long enough, they’d do some sort of interesting trick... It was more annoyingly familiar than Alphinaud liked.

“Nice,” Alisaie sighed at Alphinaud’s back, “very smooth.”

He blew out a breath, and wished he had his Grimoire on him. Unfortunately, it was also in the bags under the bench.

“Why do you look like that?” Thancred demanded without any hesitance or preamble. He’d regained his wits quickly, swinging his feet off the side of the bench and straightening his back as if he hadn’t just been roused from a dead sleep. Emet-Selch glanced his way, eyebrows furrowing in greater confusion. 

“I,” he started, and then stopped, perhaps surprised at his own normal-sounding voice. His gaze dropped to his hands, which he raised and flattened over his knees, then flipped and wiggled. The confusion grew, his eyes widening as the sleepy veneer faded fast. 

“... This is unexpected.”

“Hey, you’re all back! Without any emergency button-pushing! That’s great. That’s definitely what I expected to happen. You’ve got perfect timing, we’re just about to arrive at Diate-- oh, did you make a new friend? Why’d you bring them back here? … Hold on. _Emet-Selch?_ ”

Fandaniel returned from the direction of the nearest bathroom with a bounce in her step and smile on her face. Both qualities disappeared entirely when she peered over them and into the train room. 

“Fandaniel,” Emet-Selch replied coolly, because apparently he had a response for _everything,_ “you were saying about Diateichisma?”

“Yeah, we, uh, we’re basically there, so, everybody-- no, no, I’m not being distracted! Why do you look like that?”

“That’s what I’d asked,” Thancred muttered.

“That’s what we all had been wondering,” Alisaie added.

“A fluctuation in magics,” Emet-Selch enunciated slowly, as if by talking slower they’d let him off the hook for explaining, “combined with a bad dream. I’ll admit, I’m disappointed in my own lapse in control.”

“Maybe you should take the sleeper back to Amaurot,” Fandaniel said into the ensuing silence, her tone packed full of awkwardness. “It’s clear you need rest. I’ll ensure Diateichisma’s problems won’t be worse for your absence.”

“No need.” 

Emet-Selch closed his eyes and raised his hand. 

He snapped.

Alphinaud flinched. The last time he’d heard that, the doors to a terrible, world-ending hell opened.

In a swirl of black aether with wisps of purple and red, Emet-Selch reverted to his overgrown Amaurotine form. Mask firmly in place. No Hell, no new threats. Just Emet-Selch as Fandaniel knew him best.

Fandaniel didn’t seem convinced. If anything, the display had made her more uneasy. “Emet-Selch… I insist that we discuss-- that was a very specific-looking form, and--”

“We must discuss here and now?” He interrupted, standing. She faltered. “If we must.”

“Later,” she amended with a not-so-subtle glance toward the rest of them. “Yes. That’d be best. We are just about to arrive in Diateichisma, so, like I was saying, we should all prepare to make haste to our lodgings. Our meeting with the town council to go over our task will be _bright_ and _early_ tomorrow morning...”

“I will do my best to appear then as I appear now, only more rested,” Emet-Selch assured her with a shrewd, lilted smile.

Fandaniel’s exasperation radiated through her mask.

The rest of them exchanged discreet and not-so-discreet glances throughout the train’s stop and their disembarkment. The lodging they were led to involved a flurry of barely understandable pleasantries and kowtowing to Convocation authority while the so-called concepts were spared hardly a glance. After, with Emet-Selch trailing behind as was his usual, Fandaniel led them all to a room with two massive beds and a cot that they could barely climb onto. Fandaniel and Emet-Selch had their own rooms right next door, they were told, and they were welcome to give a knock if they needed anything (or press their panic-button if something bad happened, which was a little too patronizing to be truly kind). 

The room was beyond spacious and luxurious. The only downside was an air-conditioner which Fandaniel introduced them to and that, while initially impressive for its efficiency in cooling the room, refused to be quiet for longer than a half-bell before rattling back to life. As they all had more than enough extra space to spare-- Y’shtola, Thancred and Urianger took one bed, the twins and Ryne the other, and the Exarch on the oversized cot-- the downside of the noisy apparatus was a swiftly forgiven annoyance. 

Except… The room was definitely too big. They’d slept largely piled together in the Tower’s sole lived-in bedroom, which the Exarch had assured them was just fine about twenty times before he’d stopped fretting and scraped up every piece of linen he could find to make enough beds.

“That was odd, right?” Ryne murmured into the room’s darkness after they’d all, mostly successfully, settled in. 

There was no _planning_ for the tasks ahead of them: they didn’t know anything about the town, for one, or the tasks they were expected to perform, for two. They’d also unanimously decided and accepted that the real use of this trip was gathering information about the Amaurotine’s world prior to the Doom’s arrival-- or, even more likely, information _about_ the soon-to-arrive Doom, since they knew somewhat what to look for--as well as anything useful for their repairs of Alexander.

“The air-conditioner?” Thancred responded. “It’s been turning off and on for the past bell. I wouldn’t call it odd anymore.”

“Not that! The… you know. Emet-Selch looking like he did.”

“It was very odd,” the Exarch said. Alphinaud startled to hear him -- he’d been relatively quiet on their journey into the inn (or hotel, as Fandaniel called it). “I’m not yet sure what it meant.”

“It likely meant nothing more than what he claimed,” Thancred said. “And if it did, it meant nothing that would help us.”

“Well,” the Exarch hesitated, “you’re likely right.”

“But if you aren’t,” Y’shtola said, to Thancred’s good-natured scoff, “we should discuss its implications for Emet-Selch’s faltering control over his magics. Hythlodaeus would be grateful to us for any news, as you know.”

Using Emet-Selch’s friend against him seemed low. _Was_ low. But Hythlodaeus had little reason to trust them over his friend, and if they destroyed their precarious truce before they knew how to get home…

It was low, but it was also a little necessary.

“Hythlodaeus is not presently… present.” A beat. Urianger sounded somewhat muffled, as if he had his face in a giant pillow. Prioritizing the pillow, he continued, “May we discuss this matter in the morning?” 

Alphinaud raised his head above his own giant pillow long enough to echo his agreement for a temporary postponement. “Let us sleep on it. Morning light often clarifies what appears to be mysterious.”

“Agreed. Although I don’t need morning light to know you’re hogging the covers, Alphy,” Alisaie said without bothering to lift her face from where it was shoved into a pillow. 

Alphinaud pulled more of the blanket around himself in a simple reply.

Ryne and Alisaie both voiced protest, to which Alphinaud apologized promptly to Ryne and uncurled a bit.

Alisaie stuck her ice-cold toes into the back of his calf in retaliation. At his shout, _he_ was shushed by Thancred-- which was absolutely unfair!

Then the Exarch declared that all territory disputes in the beds would also need to be shelved until morning light, which amused Alisaie so much that she asked Alphinaud in a stealthy whisper whether he thought that particular move was a holdover from when he’d raised Lyna. But then the Exarch said, _I heard that, Alisaie_ , and-- over the muted sound of Ryne’s giggling-- _goodnight, everyone._

They all echoed their goodnights.

**. . .**

The beds were a far step up from their makeshift bedrolls on the Tower’s hard crystal floors. Despite the strange new room and the air-conditioner hiding what had become the comforting sound of Thancred’s snoring and Alisaie’s continual toss-and-turn, sleep was difficult to resist.

**. . .**

The nymph problem was not what Alisaie expected.

First, there was the _bureaucracy._ Fandaniel collected them far too early in the morning and, after ensuring they had something to eat from the hotel’s food-bar, ushered them all to a town hall. There, they stood on the sidelines as the blue-masked town council met with the visiting Convocation members and bowed and thanked them no less than five thousand times, while simultaneously pushing form after form at the two of them to sign and authenticate and “scan” and “fax,” which seemed to be the first two steps only with a machina thrown in.

In other words, for the first hour, the meeting got them nowhere. Then a short fellow named Odysseus showed up, apologizing profusely for being late due to a stray alpaca needing locating, and introduced himself as the newest agricultural chair. The other council members dithered about his tardiness, clearly embarrassed; but, though it turned out they’d been waiting on him, he made up for himself as he got down to business after the briefest set of pleasantries.

The way he handled himself, warm and direct, reminded Alisaie vaguely of Hien. 

He kept things moving. He gave specific dates of the nymph’s encroachment on the town’s territory, although he couldn’t pinpoint their cause or reasoning. He’d tried entreating with them directly, but had been rebuffed and, when he pressed, threatened. That was when he’d submitted the request to the capital for aid. Well, the failed parley and, of course, because their walls had stopped holding the creatures at bay. 

“If we lose even ten more heads of livestock, our fiscal year will be in the red.” 

“That’s an awfully small profit margin you keep,” Emet-Selch noted.

One tall counselor tittered nervously at the criticism. Emet-Selch did not even deign to glance their way.

Odysseus wasn’t deterred. “Our animals’ natural temperament has it that they require large tracts of land, lest they damage one another while they frolic. In consequence, we’re forced to keep a very strict count. Even still, the nymphs have taken dozens from us throughout the year. It’s set us back.”

“Have you none on ice to thaw and introduce to the herds?”

“The fleece disagrees with all but the most expensive preservation procedures. It’s easier to regulate their numbers the old-fashioned way.”

And that was that. Soon enough, Emet-Selch left to inspect the malfunctioning fences with him while Fandaniel and the scions headed to the nymph’s known territory. 

Fandaniel thought the townspeople kindly and knowledgeable about their specific trade, but hopeless when it came to anything beyond their walls. She led the way on foot beyond said walls -- and the rolling green hills speckled with grazing, long-necked ‘alpacas,’ all of which looked like stretched-out, shiny, silver-blue karakul -- with a determined set to her shoulders. 

She complained aloud as they went, “They said they tried diplomacy, but it’s more likely they just asked the nymphs to stop and took anything other than a ‘yes’ as a threat to burn their homes down.”

“I’m impressed you’re attempting diplomacy,” Y’shtola commented idly. 

She walked between the Exarch and Fandanial at the front of the group. The Exarch kept their pace at a _leisurely stroll in the park after dinner_ level, his eyes largely on his feet and his staff clearly a cane in all save name. He’d apologized for his slower movements when they’d made ready to leave the hotel, to which Alisaie had told him it was fine, and he needn’t apologize again (with a pointed _better not_ attached, because he could be thick-skulled about it). That early moment aside, he did not complain, they did not protest the pace, and Fandanial had yet to comment.

It worked well enough. Alisaie did not let herself think too long about how exhausted he’d be if the trip did, in fact, take a week. She didn’t think his pride would allow him to be carried around town, let alone in front of Emet-Selch.

Fandaniel gifted Y’shtola with a wide grin. “Oh, I’m not planning on just asking them to stop. Instead, I’ve a wager for them.”

“Pardon me. Did you say a wager?”

“Yes! They won’t be able to resist.”

Y’shtola tilted her head, curious. “Truly?””

“Absolutely. I’ve never dealt with them personally, but I know the nymphs here have an inclination toward taking clever challenges rather than a physical fight.” Her tone turned wistful. “I had only been a lowly intern in the bio-chem department when this particular strain was developed, but that lab’s principal investigator earned herself more than a bit of clout for successfully substituting competitiveness for outright aggression with the genome sequencing.”

“You _developed_ these nymphs?” Alphinaud blurted. “As in-- made them yourselves?” 

The news disturbed him. As Alisaie felt a lot more than simply disturbed, she silently applauded his restraint in his response.

“Not technically. I mean, Nymphs have been around for eons,” Fandaniel waved a dismissive hand, Alphinaud’s discomfort flying over her head, “but we improved them, yes. We made sure they were better suited for their role in this ecosystem.”

“That role being…”

“Regulators of the forest’s health, wildlife, et cetera, et cetera.” Alisaie had the distinct impression Fandaiel gave them a wink. “We just had to make sure they were also peaceful neighbors.”

Alphinaud made an interested, but ultimately noncommittal noise. To Alisaie’s ears, his disagreement was obvious. To Fandaniel, it clearly wasn’t.

So. The Amaurotines played at being Gods.

“I suppose then that the ego wasn’t a centuries-long development for the Ascians, either…” Alisaie muttered to Ryne and Thancred, keeping her voice too low to be picked up by Fandaniel, who walked at the head of their motley crew.

Thancred snorted. Ryne made a worried noise.

Urianger, ever tuned in to the group’s emotional state, cut in before they could make their sentiments known to the entire party. “What wager hast thou in mind for these caretakers of the forest?”

“Right, here’s my plan!” She practically vibrated with excitement. She clearly didn’t see the situation as too big of a problem. Or, possibly, she too was happy to stretch her legs and mind beyond the Tower. It still seemed inappropriate, considering the townspeople’s very real concern regarding their lost animals. “See, I’m going to take the town’s swiftest alpaca into the deepest part of the wood and release it there. If the creature makes it back to its field by sunset, they shall leave its kin and the town alone. If it doesn’t, the town will cede what livestock they’ve captured as well as a portion of the fields to the forest. Doesn’t that sound like an irresistible challenge?”

Urianger gave a slow nod. “Thou plans on interfering with the creature’s progress, I imagine.”

“Didn’t say anywhere that I couldn’t!”

“Nor that they are so barred.”

“Well, yeah. That’s just being fair.”

“And what if these nymphs simply cut the throat of the creature where it stands, ensuring it never reaches its fields?”

“Well-- er-” Fandaniel paused, floundered, “- they wouldn’t do that! That’s so _violent_.” Another pause. “They probably wouldn’t... Oh, bollocks, you’re right. I should add a provision about interference which results in harm to the animal or us...”

As it turned out, the nymphs wouldn’t do that.

The nymphs wouldn’t do that because they did not want a challenge. They did not want a competition. They most of all did not want a _wager._ They wanted their forest’s land back, and seeds to replace the trees the townsfolk had recently removed, and for the fields which encroached on their lands to be burned, so that the new seeds might better grow in the rejuvenated soil to follow.

They did not want to make nice with a shadow-cloaked thief, as they called Fandaniel. 

The Scions and Fandaniel were lucky to not be turned into trees where they stood, they cried. They had only not because their soft, ugly, smelly selves would make terrible trees, and the nymphs’ forest held no terrible trees!

Alisaie hadn’t thought it possible, but they were like if the fae folk were even more summarily unimpressed with outsiders. They had formed en masse from innocuous-looking trees without warning, surrounding their group in moments. Each matched the color and texture of the tree they appeared from. Bark-covered with ever-shifting green leaves or vines or flowers for facial features, their forms shifted fluidly in size and shape: too long and too short and too stout and too big, depending on their mood and tone. With every movement came the ominous creaking of trees in a windstorm, of underbrush rustling and danger unseen.

The only reason they made it out of the meeting alive was Urianger.

He was the one to step in after Fandaniel’s proposed wager insulted rather than intrigued the nymphs. He agreed with them that the idea was banal, and failed to address their rightful concerns about their once-flourishing forest. He pointed out that their group would make terrible treemen when the nymphs began to bemoan their forest’s loss of trees to the terrible shadow-cloaked thieves. They hadn’t even directly threatened to turn the group into trees, though by how strongly the nymphs insisted they would make _awful_ trees, they had been considering it.

He proposed the nymphs come up with a challenge fitting both to the nymphs’ fears and the Scions’ abilities as outsiders.

The nymphs drew back into their host trees to, presumably, discuss that one.

In their absence, it felt like they had the whole forest’s attention. Although it was yet morning, no birds called in the distance. No twigs snapped, no animals rustled about. Even the wind was eerily still, either by the nymphs’ rage or the forest’s densely-packed nature. 

“I really buggered that one, didn’t I,” Fandaniel muttered under her breath. She then gave a full-body sigh, bending near in half, and turned toward them. “I think I owe you some thanks, Urianger. You know, I never said, but you all can call me Eris when it’s just us, or just us and my team, or just us and Emet-Selch...”

While she rambled, Y’shtola tried to catch Urianger’s eye.

Urianger’s eyes scanned their deathly-still surroundings, tension tight in his shoulders. After finishing with a keen look at an oak within which a nymph disappeared, he returned Y’shtola’s gaze and gave a tight nod with a grave frown.

“We’re going,” Y’shtola declared, and turned on a heel. “Exarch, I’m sorry, but time is of the essence.”

Fandaniel stilled. “Huh?”

“You have no reason to apologi-- hey!” The Exarch bit off his startled yelp as Thancred scooped him up in a farmer’s carry, slinging him swiftly over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “-- T-Thancred, you could’ve asked first!”

“Consider this as me asking, then,” he bit out as he about-faced and started running right back the way they came.

Without question, Ryne, Alphinaud and Alisaie followed close on his heels. Urianger and Y’shtola hightailed it after them.

Fandaniel lingered, staring after them in befuddlement. 

Then the wind kicked up. Trees swayed. A few split along the side, spilling a snarling nymph onto the ground. One lunged at Fandaniel, who lifted a hand and erected a ruby red barrier at the last second. The nymph rebounded off it and spilled as a tangle of twigs and brush onto the ground.

She did not linger after that.

The nymphs tore after the fleeing outsiders with all the gusto of a monster scorned.

Soon, the forest howled with betrayal and disgust. Birds swooped at their heads and pecked at their backs. Rodents nipped their heels. For every swirl of fire Y’shtola threw at them and every shield Urianger summoned over their persons, the wildlife refused to let them be. Their best hope was to outrun them, but truthfully, the forest was so dense, it was hard to be sure they were going in the right direction.

Fandaniel caught up with them quickly. She had a book in her hand, Alisaie saw-- an overly large, somehow familiar, glowing blue grimoire, which she ran with clasped closed at her side. At one point, she swung it at a diving sparrow, and nailed the thing right in the beak. With a squawk, the bird flew back into the trees.

A nymph cried that the interlopers meant to take more than simply their land; that they meant to rain destruction on every aspect of their life; that, even worse, they would not stop until they’d ruined it all! In for an inch, in for a mile, these interlopers were.

Alisaie couldn’t help but ask, “Why is everything on this Star always so dramatic?!”

“It isn’t their fault. They were keeping to their own,” Urianger replied-- because of _course_ he was defending the fae folk.

Alisaie didn’t have the breath to debate. The only one who did have his wits about him-- as he had the most air to spare-- was the Exarch, who watched from his optimal seat over Thancred’s shoulder as the nymphs gained on them.

Seemingly at once, the birds stopped swooping and the rodents stopped biting. The nymphs’ clamoring fell back, as if distanced. 

Unfortunately, by the Exarch’s increasingly wide eyes, that wasn’t the good sign Alisaie wanted it to be.

“Not to alarm you all,” he said as if to confirm her fears, yelling to be heard over the forest’s roaring winds, “but-- duck!”

Without question, they all did, crashing to the ground in a dive of varying successes.

A wave of dirt, rock and broken roots crashed over their heads and into the spot they would’ve been. By the dust and resulting pile’s size, it was a small mountain’s worth. 

It also blocked their path, and disorientated Alisaie terribly as to what direction they should head.

“This way,” Fandaniel said, voice finally, finally serious. “I can tell Emet-Selch and the town lies in that direction. We’re almost out.”

“They shan’t follow us past the treeline,” Urianger said. “T’is the end of their domain.”

“You promise?” Thancred grunted, heaving the Exarch again over his shoulder as he staggered up. The Exarch helped by clinging like an opo-opo, one hand on his staff and the other tight in the back of Thancred’s jacket. He was lucky Thancred had him over the shoulder that was away from his gunblade’s pointy, cutting side.

Again, Urianger was right. They had a few more close calls with rodents getting underfoot and tree roots abruptly rising from the ground to tangle around their feet, but the nymphs were unable to catch them before they found the forest’s distinct treeline.

The underbrush grew thickest there, the shrubbery lush and thorny. 

Fandaniel tripped, but fortunately, she fell beyond the edge of the farthest-out tree. True to Urianger’s word, it was like entering another world: the wind died down, the wildlife’s anger dissipated, and the nymphs refused to pass the treeline. They halted as if on the other side of an invisible barrier, growling and hissing but stepping not a foot outside of the tree’s shadow. The greenery covering their bodies swirled and lashed, their skin bristling out and resettling with an aggressive clattering sound, like wood chips grinding on each other.

As the Scions watched, the nymphs promised ruin if their land was not returned and their losses compensated by fall’s arrival; then, they shrunk back into their woods, their skin merging smoothly with the trunks of elder trees. The forest’s cacophony faded bit by bit, until at last it no longer felt as if thousands of eyes rested upon their heads.

Then, and only then, did Alisaie let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Thancred let the Exarch down, who stood on wobbly legs but still managed to give Thancred a quick bow of somehow-sincere thanks. Ryne rubbed at the red scratches on her arms and neck, wincing. Fandaniel, Urianger and Y’shtola each had to straighten their respective robes and dresses.

Alphinaud had his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, but a cursory once-over showed him otherwise unharmed.

“That,” Alisaie said, as she stood and tried vainly to dust the grass and dirt stains off her clothing, “could have gone better. Next time? We go in with an exit plan.”

“I think we did fine.” Thancred drawled. “All fingers accounted for? Then it was a successful escape.”

“I’d say you should raise your standards, Thancred, but they’ve always been a little questionable,” Y’shtola joked lightly, her tension slowly eking out. 

“We did gain valuable knowledge on the origins of this peculiar land dispute.” Robes as presentable as they were going to be without a thorough washing, Urianger shifted his attention to Fandaniel. Or, Eris, maybe. She still had her blue book out, though she was looking at it as if she had no idea why. When Urianger continued speaking, she blinked down at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I doth believe the townspeople have much explaining to do.”

Fandaniel nodded, then shook her head, as if to clear it. She finally banished the blue book with a quick jerk of her hand. 

She said, turning toward the town’s very-close defensive wall and the excessively sprawling fields behind it, “Yes. I think they do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Y'shtola & Thancred: chillin'](https://i.imgur.com/M1uvEt9.png)
> 
> Thank you again and again to [Jackaloping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackaloping) for the beautiful art! <33


	6. Chapter 6

“The reason for the defense’s malfunctions was that they expanded the wall’s territory far beyond their original planned scope. They miscalculated the energy necessary for such measures, and subsequently left twenty-one percent of the grid without power.”

“Without so many words, the nymphs confirmed the same.”

“Fixing the generators hardly took an hour. By your disheveled state and petulant pout, I take it that your expedition into the woods didn’t proceed as smoothly?”

“Don’t even get me started-- they tried to bury us alive, Emet-Selch! Can you believe that?”

“They’ve been here, unregulated, for centuries. Of course they’ve changed.”

“Since when were you an evolution expert? That level of aggression in a developed species was unprecedented.” 

“As you say.” 

Emet-Selch was in his full, pristine Convocation regalia and ego. The rest of them were yet mud- and blood-speckled. Upon request for a private place to discuss their day’s findings (Fandaniel’s tone notably frostier toward the council), they had been ushered in one of the three rooms in the town hall: a small conference room with a boring wooden table and six too-big chairs with wheels on the ends. Emet-Selch had predictably taken a seat at the head of the table and immediately settled in as if for a nap, hands laced on his chest and one leg propped over the other. Fandaniel took the seat to his right, and instantly planted her elbows on the table so as to best bury her face in her hands and let out a stream of annoyed grumbling.

The furniture took up the majority of the space, which left the Scions crowded against the walls. Alisaie did her best to ignore her urge to strain onto her tip-toes so as to properly glare at the Amaurotines for being so thick-skulled. 

Instead, she crossed her arms and angled herself back far enough to be seen by Emet-Selch. “You’ll have to reset the walls. The nymphs won’t quit until they get their land back.”

His attention shifted to her. For once, he seemed to actually consider what she said. 

What Alisaie really wanted to do was tell him to take off the damn mask. Much as she didn’t particularly like looking at his face, it was better than the sick charade at being who he once was.

After a moment, he said, “If they reclaim their lands without consequence, they will learn they need not limit themselves to their forest’s boundaries. We will have given them a taste for expansionism.”

“Only if they discover the need,” Urianger broke in, “for greed ist not their wont.”

Emet-Selch’s lip curled. “What expansionists have ever believed themselves acting in greed?”

“I can think of one Emperor,” G’raha murmured, “and thus, at least one Empire.”

Emet-Selch _hmphed_. “If you believed him to be acting in greed, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“By law, Alisaie’s right.” Fandaniel’s attention had flitted between them through that short exchange, but ultimately, she must have decided not to ask about their strange diversion. “I checked after we returned to town: the land belongs to the nymphs. Diateichisma filed absolutely no permits to expand their fields, and even if they had, they’re in violation of three separate zoning ordinances. With no approved variances, the defenses are being operated outside their intended use and well beyond warranty, and that’s not even mentioning the wanton deforestation-- or, rather, _and_ , the secondary impact on the locale from the increased number of livestock! There’s so much wrong with what’s happening here, I need to write it all down before I forget--!”

Alisaie almost laughed. She didn’t catch half of Fandaniel’s meaning, but she knew enough that most of it was administrative. Were they really bickering over proper filings? That seemed to be missing the point. Twelve above, it was worse than Ul’dah politicking. At least they didn’t pretend to squabble over forms when the real trouble was the gil at the center of it all.

Emet-Selch regarded Fandaniel’s distress with idle fascination.

It was strangely gratifying to see him as baffled by his colleague as they often were.

After a moment, he unlaced his hands from his chest and, finally, sat forward. “Very well. Then it is clear that our next course of action is to impose the proper fines, order restoration of the developed land to its original state, and submit them to compliance check-ins for the next decade.”

Fandaniel again buried her face in her hands and groaned. “Yes, yes, that all sounds well and good, but those nymphs are going to need compliance checks as well… Halmarut will have more than a few words about all this, I’m sure. _Especially_ if we end up needing to rework the whole population. What was Odysseus’ explanation for all this? Greed, as you so said?”

Emet-Selch hummed low in his throat. “In a manner of speaking. I gathered that the average demand for alpaca fleece has dropped rapidly over the last few years. Dependent as they are on its profitability, they’ve designed new and more extravagant products to keep their market afloat. He says that it’s worked to keep their town’s lights on. But, it requires far more fleece and, thus, far more animals.”

“Oh.” Fandaniel was unimpressed. “They’ll have to figure out something else.”

Emet-Selch shook his head and leaned back into his plush chair. Its leather squeaked. “Or Diateichisma’s time may have passed.”

Fandaniel’s head tilted and her mouth pursed. Alisaie finally understood that to be the Amaurotine version of an odd look. “They’ll be fine.”

Emet-Selch drew a lazy hand through the air. _As you say_ , it said, as brutally neutral as before. 

Fandaniel looked ready to argue, her patience with his flippancy clearly at an end. But then her eye caught on Alisaie’s, and her frown softened, and the moment passed. 

“You all were a great help today.” Embarrassment edged her words. “Your perspective on the nymphs was refreshing… and revealing, regarding my own. I believe I underestimated you.”

Treated them like a bunch of strange animals in need of poking and prodding and then forgetting forever, more like. 

What Alisaie said was, “It’s alright. We’ve grown to expect it since our first dealings with,” and here she pointedly did not look toward Emet-Selch even though she very much wanted to, “you and yours.”

Fandaniel’s embarrassment grew. It was, miraculously, directed at herself.

Alphinaud made the noises of a diplomat righting a slip of the tongue, saying that what Alisaie meant was that it was very understandable, and he was happy she both recognized the difference and had allowed them the opportunity to demonstrate their skills, and blah, blah, blah. Alisaie left him to it.

“You truly should call me Eris when we’re in private,” Fandaniel reiterated at the end, her embarrassment mollified by Alphinaud’s coddling. “-- You too, Emet-Selch. I admit, I grow weary of the formality required by our seats in the Convocation. Remember when we were just two growing professionals?”

Emet-Selch’s hands tightened upon the end of his chair’s arms. The leather creaked.

Beside her, Thancred tensed. After taking stock of herself, Alisaie realized she had, too. 

Unbidden, a not-so-distant memory rose. Them, trying to talk him down from the Capital’s steps. Their attempts to make him see reason, to release the Exarch and leave the Warrior of Light be. Him, switching from hurting and brittle but ultimately conversational to spitting mad, his temper flaring as high as the flames that loomed behind him when they _dared_ assert as equal the worth of their people’s lives to his.

For such a sleepy beast, a temper lurked within. The hint of it in creaking leather and tightened hands set Alisaie’s teeth on edge, and sent her hand to her rapier’s hilt.

“... If that’s not too forward of me,” Eris added lamely, sensing the anger in the room but clearly unsure what to make of it. 

Especially as, just as quick as it came, it went away. Or, most likely, he buried it. The real question was just how deep and for just how long it would remain so.

Emet-Selch released his tight grasp on the chair’s arms, and sunk even farther back into his chair. “No, no. Forgive me. It can feel like a lifetime ago.”

Alisaie didn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. This _jerk._

“Right.” Eris didn’t sound so sure of that. Most likely because Emet-Selch’s voice was too silky-smooth and viper-in-the-grass to be anything like sincere.

“Eris, then. And I, Hades. As you know.”

Eris nodded and gave him a small, weak smile.

Then she paused.

And said, “It’s been so long since we’ve caught up, one-on-one. We have some time before we need to discuss our findings with the council; as I imagine after that will be quite the flurry of activity, including our narrow escape onto the train from the mob to follow, we should take the time now.”

“If we must,” Emet-Selch replied without missing a beat. Alisaie had to hand it to him: he really never gave a single care toward how others perceived him. Too bad he, as a person, tended toward unpleasant. “Then-- we will rejoin with you all at the hotel, hm?”

They’d been so long ignored by the Amaurotines during conversations, Alisaie almost glanced around to see who he was referring to. Once she realized he’d faced them because he meant _them_ , she gave him a pointed shrug, then turned to Eris. “Alright. Make sure to give us a head’s up before that mob forms, Eris.”

She flashed her a thumbs up and small, tight-at-the-edges smile. “Will do.”

Y’shtola and Urianger exchanged glances. For all Eris had worried before about their safety, either Emet-Selch’s behavior was so concerning that she’d forgotten to be concerned _or_ their romp through the forest really had raised them in her esteem. Whatever the cause, Alisaie didn’t want to wait around for her to change her mind. Y’shtola and Urianger could over-analyze and over-strategize all they wanted-- she was stretching her legs.

“Let’s do that, then,” she said with a smile to Alphinaud, who immediately frowned at her in response. By her smile, he knew she didn’t plan on returning directly to the hotel. He was right -- she planned to explore the town while they had a chance to escape their chaperone’s watchful eyes. Likely Alphinaud would need some time to think over if he wanted to follow her plans, but she was pretty confident he’d be down. They’d maybe need to swing by the hotel to make sure the Exarch could rest, though. He’d spent the majority of the talk sitting against the wall, his eye’s shadows deepening by the minute and his skin paler than ever.

When they began to head out, he leaned on his staff as if it was the only way he’d be standing. It probably was.

No one commented on it, but Alisaie saw the way Eris and Emet-Selch’s attention caught on him. Alisaie found herself bristling even though the Exarch didn’t need her to defend him. It was just-- unfair. 

And, a little frightening. The way his energy sapped so quickly, the sickly aura that grew in his exhausted state… It reminded her of those who succumbed to light poisoning. Obviously, it wasn’t the same, but it didn’t sit well with her. Selfishly, she hoped he still had enough energy to look around the town a _bit._ It would do him some good mentally, even if not physically. 

In any case, they made their way out in short order.

“The nymphs will not be satisfied by their paltry recompense,” Urianger murmured as they made their way down the hall toward the front door. “T’was the anger of creatures scorned for far too long that we witnessed today. Such fire cannot be doused by a cupful of pity.”

“The people here are fortunate those nymphs refuse to leave their forest. I can only imagine the pixies’ reaction to something similar threatening their territory,” Alphinaud said.

Urianger shook his head. “The pixies wouldst not have allowed such encroachment in the first place. But, then, they are free and strong-willed. These nymphs, by design, live a life the opposite.”

“I wonder if they meddle as such with every species.”

“I would be surprised indeed to learn that they do not.”

“Do you miss the faefolk, Urianger?” Ryne asked then.

“I look forward to my return to their lands, if that answers thy question.”

It definitely did, in Alisaie’s opinion. She couldn’t entirely blame him, though. Alphinaud hadn’t understood why she’d wanted to hang around the Inn at Journey’s Head. They all had found a place -- or in Thancred’s case, a person -- that was, even if never truly home, comfortable. It had made waiting for Cahsi a little less painful (though not always and never _forever_ ).

Once they passed the town hall’s doors -- which thankfully opened automatically based on presence, like most doors in this strange past -- Alisaie pulled ahead of the others, put her hands on her hips, and declared, “Alright, I’m looking around. Who’s with me?”

Fortunately, as company was nice when wandering a strange new town, they all were.

**. . .**

G’raha hurt far worse than usual.

He’d tried to ignore it, deny it, reason it away, and every other possible avenue other than acceptance. But as they headed into the sedate, peaceful town of Diateichisma and did little more than wander its wide streets -- on the sidewalk, away from the occasional vehicle which rumbled past -- and peer into store windows, he had to accept it: he had grown exhausted at near double the speed than before.

 _Before_ being the last best day of his life. For all that had been planned after and what had happened since, he could yet rely on the pristine memory of fighting alongside the Warrior of Light and, afterward, sitting and discussing with her hopeful futures and far-flung fantasies. The cliff’s quiet disturbed only by her chatter and his laughter, and the distant rush of a glittering blue tide against never- and ever-changing sand. Though his limbs had ached, he’d been buoyed by elation of the day.

Here, no elation could rejuvenate his limbs. His spirit fought the exhaustion, but it was as if he’d walked the shadow of Amaurot’s burning halls all over again. And they hadn’t even _done_ anything, not really. Ran away from murderous nymphs, walked from train to hotel and hotel to town hall and now around town, and yet-- and yet--!

Before their unintentional time travel, the crystal hadn’t spread past the rightmost side of his chest.

Now, it struck a jagged bolt of blue across his back, and covered him from collarbone to navel with greedy tendrils dripping to his right hip. 

He had hoped it had been a superficial result of the Tower using him as the conduit for their extended jump backwards. Typically such a sudden, excessive growth would have been excessively painful, and he hadn’t-- well, alright, he had felt gods-awful on waking up in the real Amaurot. But, surely, walking through a flaming Amaurot had been the source of that pain. In any case, he’d been too cowardly to cut himself open to check how deep it’d gone.

There turned out to be no need, anyway, as their impromptu tour of Diateichisma brought home just how deep the Tower’s claws had sunk.

“Is that a park?” Ryne asked. “It looks very peaceful.”

“Right in the middle of the town, too. How convenient for us,” Y’shtola replied. “I’d like a look at that sculpture. It is made of the oddest material.”

“How doth thou comprehend nuances between steel and stone? Their energies cannot shine too bright.”

“How? By my hands, mostly.”

The Amaurotines-- though that was certainly not what they were called here-- spared them from fears of getting underfoot by largely avoiding their motley crew. Happily, that also meant the two figures which had been sitting on a bench next to the park’s small pond took one look at their approach and, after a bout of obvious staring, made themselves scarce. 

Ryne, Alphinaud and Alisaie quickly took their place, though they decided to stand closer to the pond’s edge and challenge one another to skipping stones. After the near-death experience of the day, it was a heartening sight. Thancred joined them after giving the park a cautionary once-over, as his instincts no doubt demanded-- but then he was promptly sidelined to _judge_ of stone-skipping, as he easily out-skipped the twins’ throws.

The park’s vibrant-colored sculpture was of an interesting texture: smooth and bulbous. Urianger and Y’shtola meandered toward it. As its base was about Y’shtola’s height, G’raha heard her ask if it would be a problem if she climbed it, or if Urianger was willing to give her a boost. Urianger offered her a boost by hand, declining to take her upon his shoulders. He claimed he was too short for that to satisfy her curiosity for long.

G’raha wished he had it in him to do more than hoist himself onto the newly unoccupied bench and _not_ summarily collapse sideways, curl up, and pass out. 

Or whine pitifully. 

Or wail loudly. 

Or all three, in opposite order, just to relieve the frustrations building under his sternum.

He’d long learned not to indulge too long in _remember-whens_ , but he allowed himself to feel the full force of his disgust at himself for a good, long moment. Once, he’d have clambered up the sculpture without a care. Once, he’d have gathered the cattails around the pond and woven quite the ridiculous crown out of them, so as to reward the competition’s victor (and then be entertained when the crown brought nothing but sneeze-fests for said victory). Once, he’d have had a pack of books, and a blanket, and he’d have found the sunniest spot, and…

Once, he’d have had the energy to investigate this quiet little town from sun-up to sunset.

“Is this seat taken?”

G’raha startled from his self-indulgent self-pity. A relatively short Amaurotine with a plain if thin white mask stood next to his bench. She wrung her hands in apparent nervousness, though her head was tilted with curiosity.

A bit behind her and off to the side, the teenagers and Thancred had paused their game to watch their exchange. G’raha did not imagine how Thancred’s hand twitched up toward his gunblade, _just in case._

It was the first time an Amaurotine, save Emet-Selch, Eris, and Hythlodaeus, addressed them completely voluntarily. Although exhaustion yet clouded his thoughts, G’raha found himself curious enough in response to summon the energy for a smile, nod, and scoot over a bit. 

“It’s free as far as I’m aware,” he said, then tilted his own head and raised a hand to curl at his chin. Though he had yet to learn every polite cue from Amaurotines, he’d observed enough to know that one signaled _I’m interested._ “I am the Exarch. You are…?”

She took the seat with an open sigh of relief. Her hands fell to her knees, her pale white fingers gripping tight. “I am called Circe. It is a pleasure to meet you, the Exarch.”

She put much effort into sounding friendly, though the exact tone was largely lost through the garbled multi-layer, sing-song quality of her voice through his mind.

Who would have thought an Amaurotine would be so afraid of them.

It warmed him to her instantly. He kept his own arms relaxed, and his smile soft. “Simply ‘Exarch’ is fine, Circe. What has brought you here?”

“I was going to ask you that!” She laughed over-loud, then quickly hushed herself. One hand darted up to tug the tip of her hood down. “I, you see, I live a block away from here. I was on my way back from the grocer’s when I saw you and your friends, and thought, now there is something new. Not much new happens here, so I had thought, too, I would like to say hello. I am pleased you are able to say hello back.”

He refused to let himself be offended by such an assumption. It was obviously par for the Amaurotine course. “It is fortunate you did. You see, my friends and I had a few questions about this park…”

Her head jerked his way. Startled. “Really? Is it unique to your eyes?”

“The sculpture certainly is.” Her head swerved over to it, her whole body craned. He stifled his laugh at her over-responsiveness. “Do you know its meaning?”

“Oh, certainly. Well, its meaning is not so grand-- it’s simply a monument to the alpaca’s importance--but its sculptor was.”

“Who was that?”

“He was called Midas. He had this way with creation magics, and particularly gold… He was the most recent of our town to receive a seat at Akadaemia Anyder. Have you heard of it? You must have.”

“I have,” he allowed. “Though I admit I am unsure why that would make an individual so grand.”

“Why!” she exclaimed. “It is simply the greatest university of our people! Only the brightest and most gifted are able to enter. It’s-- it’s a ticket to the high life. Anyone worth their mask would leap at the opportunity to attend.”

“It is selective, then?”

“Very.” She cocked her head to one side, then the other. Her hands rubbed at her knees, her anxiety whatever memory overcame her palpable. “I have tried for decades to enter. This town, you see, it’s changing… We used to be a united people, with plenty of good work to go around. Now, only the cleverest handle the fleeces. The rest of us must stay home with nothing to do, and no decent task to put our talents to. It is unbearable. Wasteful, even.”

He was not entirely sure how to respond. He glanced beyond her to the others. Thancred’s tension had eased somewhat, although he kept a careful and obvious eye on the two of them. Ryne, Alphinaud and Alisaie appeared to be discussing something between themselves. Urianger and Y’shtola’s attention had also caught on them; without Thancred standing between them and the bench, they quickly started in G’raha and Circe’s direction. 

Taking his eyes away from them lest Circe look too, he asked, “Would it truly be so different in Amaurot?”

“It must be.” Her fingers dug into her knees, her robes bunching. She bowed her head forward, and took a deep breath.

He watched with uncertainty.

She released it slowly, then straightened. Looked to him, and shook her head, as if banishing a demon.

“I apologize. How rude of me, getting so side-tracked and rambling like that. There are still pieces of this town that we can be proud of. For instance, have you seen the library?”

G’raha took the olive branch with grace. “We haven’t.” 

Urianger and Y’shtola reached them. Circe gave them a big, wobbly smile, in a clear effort to regather her wits.

“Hello!” Again, with nervous cheerfulness. “Who might you two be? We were just discussing the, ah… the sculpture, yes, and-- and the library. It’s small, but cozy, if you haven’t been, which I’ve been told you haven’t. You really should.”

When G’raha didn’t tell them to run far, far away, the two of them introduced themselves. Urianger affirmed they hadn’t been to the library. Y’shtola asked her to repeat what she knew about the sculpture’s origins and meaning-- and, rather than let her be sidetracked by Midas’ success, asked her how one went about making such a sculpture, generally.

She offered to show Y’shtola, if she wanted. “Though I’m not so good with sculptures, I could certainly demonstrate the basic processes, if you'd like.”

Y’shtola decided she did, and told Circe as much.

By then, Thancred and the others wandered their way. Another round of introductions passed between them, quicker than before due to Circe’s growing excitement to show off her creation magics to an interested audience. She stood from the bench and bounced a few jaunty steps away. Looking over them, she stretched her arms wide and instructed them to stand in a close ring behind her, lest she accidentally summon something atop their tiny heads. 

Curious despite themselves, they did so. Thancred gave them a look behind her back that said he was sure they were about to regret it, but Ryne appeared so enraptured that he thought twice about speaking his mind aloud. 

“Behold!” Circe declared, voice fit for a stadium announcer. “My greatest feat yet, I am sure of it!”

Orange light burst from between her arms. It grew, and brightened, and surrounded them; G’raha found himself forced to cover his eyes lest the white-yellow-orange mess blind him. He felt magics wash over him. The very air squeezed him tight, crushing him in on all sides before loosening with a small, ear-popping _vrrop!_

\--- That was not the sound of a structure being built.

That was, in fact, a very, very familiar sound. Emet-Selch announced his presence with it more often than not, and left in much the same manner.

G’raha lowered his arm and blinked away dancing yellow and red spots from his eyes. 

Circe, and Circe alone, stood before him. Her arms yet spread wide, she looked down at him with a triumphant grin. 

No longer were they in the park. Now, they stood in what appeared to be a barn, albeit a long-forgotten one. Rows upon rows of empty stalls surrounded them. The musty smell of old hay and alfalfa stuffed up G’raha’s nose on every inhale. Caked in dust as the windows were, only the faintest late-afternoon light crept in. As a result, a dim, sick yellow sheen covered all.

“A success! I-- I can’t believe it, at last, I’ve found it! I found my ticket.” Circe. Her arms dropped, and curled around her middle as she doubled over in laughter. It was not a kind sound; it was not a good sound; it was, quite possibly, a terrible noise, akin to laughter with a mouthful of broken glass. “With you as my concept, the Akadaemia _has_ to let me in.”

G’raha looked up at her with wide eyes, alarm shoving his exhaustion aside.

As she continued to laugh, his alarm sharpened into annoyance.

Great.

He’d been kidnapped.

_Again._

He clutched his staff between his hands, and leaned upon it in a bid to summon his strength. It was at a low, yes, but not so low as to be bested by some strange Amaurotine. All at once, the day crept up on him: his persistent, terrible, inescapable exhaustion; the crystallization down his front and back, and how it would only _ever_ get worse; the nymphs, and their righteous fury misplaced upon the Scions’ heads; Emet-Selch, pretending he had already won; and now this, a pleasant time at the park turned vile.

Jaw clenched and teeth grinding, he focused inward and drew forth the heat for fire. Perhaps singed robes would make her reconsider her awful choice in abduction, and lend him aid in his demand for her to return him promptly to the people he belonged with.

(The lesson to be learned here was: violence in anger alone was never the answer.)

The Tower’s power surged within him, eager to be used at last. A flash of fire leapt from his hands. It struck true upon her shoulders, so distracted and ill-prepared was she for retaliation. 

She staggered back with a yelp, her hands jumping up to pat the licks of flame away. 

She cried, “Ouch! What in the--?!”

To his surprise, she did not succeed in brushing the flames from her robes. Instead of summoning water as he might have expected, she brought a gust upon herself. By her curse, she did not intend to do so.

(But of course, she was not an Amaurotine skilled with her magics, was she…)

Gorged by the gust, the flames leapt higher. 

To G’raha’s returning alarm, sparks fell from her shoulders and onto the ground. There, the scattered, forgotten hay caught alight. Soon, the yellowed air brightened with jumping flames, and then dimmed with thick, blackened smoke.

When he reached for the chill of a blizzard, to at least wrap himself and Circe in some meager protection, he found the Tower happy to oblige-- but then lost it, as a flame-topped Circe charged him in a panic, her mind screaming at his in fear, and knocked him aside.

 _Uh-oh_ , G’raha thought, _this isn’t good,_ and also, _the Scions will be so disappointed,_ just before he hit the metal edge of a stall’s gate and everything turned _very_ topsy-turvy.

**. . .**

“So--o,” Fandaniel huffed, “that went about as well as I expected.”

“They have rights to an appeal of our decision.” And they would not win. Very few did when the Convocation issued the decision, and always for better reasons than mere economic crisis. “Perhaps they will at last remember there are procedures for a reason.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath. These rural towns can be so thick-headed.”

“Why, Eris, that sounds like undue bias to me. Don’t let any councilor overhear you.”

“Hush. You think the same.”

He thought most people were thick-headed. What surprised him was that he did agree with her on this particular rural town, as the town council meeting had proven they truly did think themselves above well-established administrative processes, filled otherwise though it was with his people. But then, what surprised him more was that he thought the same about more than half her team at the Tower, as well as a good portion of Amaurot. Whether it was a pleasant surprise -- a nuance forgotten and rediscovered -- or not, he hadn’t yet decided.

They walked at a sedate pace toward the hotel. It had been a relatively busy day. He found himself almost disappointed that the sun already dipped so low, the afternoon all but spent. Initially, he’d felt little more than rage at being sent on this fool’s errand in a town he had hardly visited in his first go around Amaurot, but some good had come of it. Though he itched to return to his city, the clear air and unexpected tasks had refreshed his mind.

“... Or has that changed, too? With all you’ve told me, I feel like we hardly know each other now. Is that fair to say?”

Fandaniel pitched her voice low. He did not check as he did not dare let his shields down enough to learn, but he imagined she had locked her emotions and soul up tight.

She had much to process, he supposed. Or, so she thought. He had relented to her prodding and finally explained to her the same that he discussed with Hythlodaeus, though he still had not told her _everything_ in detail. Time travel alone disrupted more than a few universal laws they, as scientists and philosophers and mathematicians, believed were constant. That the Tower had facilitated such travel not once, but -- to his knowledge -- twice, was a revelation she was elated to have but equally unsure what to do with. To find out that the near future held a world-altering disease that resulted in their mass near-extinction, he imagined was even more unbelievable. It was only when he admitted that the soul-carrying vessels she had taken a shine to were the result of a catastrophic event in the future that she started to grasp the enormity of what he had returned to avert. He supplemented what he said with carefully-chosen memories and emotions, and explained away the large gaps with their limited time before needing to see to the town council.

She realized on her own that the souls the mortals carried were pieces of their kin, and that was why they were vaguely familiar. That observation was not one he elaborated on, though he found himself somewhat impressed she’d worked it out.

She knew not of Zodiark, or the sacrifices He demanded. She knew not how old he was, though she had made a weak quip that his additional years finally explained why his love for napping had reached previously unseen heights. 

She did not know the threat she posed.

Ideally, she never would. If he could stem her rebellion before it even began, her aid would be indispensable in _properly_ binding Zodiark. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, with the extra time, she could fathom a method outside Zodiark that nonetheless righted the world. She had always been gifted in unraveling chaotic magics.

But a world without Zodiark… It could not be.

He felt a twinge beneath his breast. Was it not already so? He hadn’t felt His voice, not his _true_ voice, in weeks.

Yes, it was a world without Zodiark, and that was why it was a world Doomed.

“Hades. Hades. _Hades._ C’mon, isn’t three times the trick?”

He reluctantly extracted himself from his thoughts. “What is it?”

“You drifted again,” she accused, drawing her hand back from where it had, presumably, been waving about in front of his face. Then, in a continued effort to normalize the enormity of what she’d learned, she joked, “I know you’re ancient, but if you don’t keep your focus sometimes, you’re going to lose it forever. Then you might, I don’t know, forget yourself and turn into a rock or something.”

“I did not drift,” he responded coolly, “I simply heard nothing worth responding to.”

She whistled. “Wow! Jeez, the years have not done your mood any favors, have they?”

That-- was concerning. The degree to which it concerned him, he did not expect, and could not repress. He knew he’d changed, would have been a blind fool to not know and a dead fool to not have adapted, but he’d thought himself not so different at the core. Not when it came to his home and his people, at least; he’d always worked hard for them, always dedicated himself to them. He’d fought tooth and nail through the eons to preserve all he could of them. At last actually and truly being home had surely brought out what remained of the old him— and, consequently, the best of him.

He asked, keeping his tone light, “Have I changed so much?”

“Loads,” Fandaniel replied with a half-laugh.

He scowled. She was as blunt and tactless as he remembered, and he remembered well.

“It’s been obvious something’s off with you for a while now. It just didn’t make any sense _why_ , so I couldn’t put my finger on what the problem was. But now that I know…” She blew out a breath. “Well. Since I know what you said to be your truth, I can’t say I blame you.” 

“Once the end of the world is diverted,” he drawled, “I’m sure I’ll spring right back to how you recall me being.”

“I think that’d be very strange, and probably impossible.” She regarded him with open curiosity. He resisted the urge to turn away or, failing that, pull her hood over her face. It was a distinctly childish impulse, and one he immediately blamed on his overexposure to the mortals. “Although I cannot say with certainty, of course. I’ve never before seen such change in a soul as what I see in yours. What sliver you allow me to see, anyway.”

“You speak of me as if I were one of your experiments.”

“You could be,” she said, a hint of excitement in her voice. “Maybe not _mine_ , but somebody’s. No one really studies aging anymore, but you’re a treasure trove of information! Shame about the small sample size, of course, unless you think that Tower could bring back mor--”

“No.”

“-- Okay, okay, fine. Still, my point sta-- eh? Where is everyone?”

They had arrived at their hotel. Devoid of context as passersby would be, he did not fear being overheard, and so they had made their way through its tiny lobby and into its unimpressive halls. He knew the town, small though it was, boasted better lodgings down the block. Why they’d been stuck in a dismal Innfinity, he blamed entirely on the administration clerk’s lack of knowledge about proper travel lodgings. 

Distracted as he was with Fandaniel’s assertions that he’d _changed_ so much as to warrant academic scrutiny, he did not recognize what had her halting in the middle of the hallway before the mortal’s door until he processed her words.

Out of vague curiosity, he extended his awareness to the room’s interior. Indeed, the mortals were missing.

But, her alarm was unnecessary. They could handle themselves in such a peaceful place as Diateichisma. 

He said as much. “So? They likely went to explore the town.”

“I told them to come right back here,” she grumbled, and knocked on the door, as if that would magically summon them back. “Didn’t I? If I didn’t, I implied it. It’s not safe for them out there.”

“They’re more resilient than they have any right to be.” Little did she know just how much. That particular batch of mortals had a tendency to be both surprising and lucky. He thought of them less as pests, lately; after all, in a way, they were -- or, _one_ was -- responsible for his return to his home. “In any case, their largest threat is a particularly wide gap in a sewer grate. You truly have nothing to worry about.”

“They did handle themselves very well today... I would’ve had to use deadly force on the nymphs if it had been just me.” She blew out a breath, and backed away from the door. 

Her shoulders drooped.

A shrill beeping filled the hallway.

She jumped. 

He did too. Slightly. 

She fumbled for her pocket, and drew out her phone. The beeping grew louder without the protective power of thick fabric in the way. She poked at it furiously, fumbling somewhat with the device until the off button stopped being elusive and it finally fell blessedly quiet.

That was, he realized, their little distress line. 

If the mortals were willing to call upon _them_ \-- hm. 

So Diateichisma wasn’t as peaceful as expected. Had the nymphs entered the town? No, he was sure they could not make it past the defenses. Unless someone had been impatient, and deactivated the extended portions without taking proper precautions. 

There was no telling until they saw for themselves. That particular batch of mortals also worked themselves into the most absurd, absolutely avoidable situations.

“They’re just fine, huh? We’ll see.” Fandaniel’s frown was tight, her voice and cadence tense. “I’ve got the coordinates. Let’s go.”

**. . .**

Once they teleported to the middle of six -- bristling amidst an otherwise peaceful park -- distraught mortals, the problem was not difficult to guess.

“There were seven of you, weren’t there? -- There definitely was.” Fandaniel counted them one by one, mumbling under breath as she pointed to each in turn, much to their growing ire. “But now the Exarch is missing. How do you lose track of someone who moves at the speed of a cement-laden turtle?”

“By involuntary teleport,” Y’shtola said, cool as ice. “If it were any other way, trust us, we would have solved it already.”

Warmed though she had been to the idea the mortals were a bit more substantial than mere concepts, Fandaniel still hadn’t expected to be talked back to. She balked at Y’shtola’s tone, then muttered, abashed, “Right. Of course.”

“We thought you would be able to find him.” Emet-Selch shifted his attention from their exchange to Alphinaud. The elezen had to crane his neck to an absurd degree to meet his gaze. It wasn’t a good look for him “It hasn’t been long since she took him. Surely, there is something you can do.”

He sounded more confident than he felt. Even as he made his request, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides and his eyes remained too-wide.

Thancred refused to look his way, his arms crossed tight across his chest. As expected, that. He yet refused to entreat with Ascians -- and, admittedly, for good reason. Lahabrea had failed spectacularly in allowing that one to survive a possession. The rest of the mortals beseeched his help in varying degrees of transparency: from Ryne’s clasped hands before her chest to Alisaie’s scowl, Y’shtola’s flinty and cold eyes betraying her low expectations, while Urianger seemed filled with endless patience.

Funny that Y’shtola should doubt him so, he privately thought. It had been his hand to pull her back from the Lifestream after her Flow spell stunt landed herself there. 

But that was beside the point, and a thought too petty even for him.

The truth was: they were surprisingly adept at swallowing their pride for their friends. 

And the truth therein: it was an undeniably admirable trait. 

A pity it was an exception which proved their species’ narcissism and self-obsession.

They were right, he could. He would. The Exarch was the only non-negotiable piece of their tag-along bunch, in case time travel en masse _was_ the only method by which to save his people. But it was still commendable of them to ask, knowing he had the means but not necessarily the will, and that there was nothing in their power to change his mind had it been set opposed to theirs.

\-- All this, Emet-Selch ruminated upon between one breath and the next.

While a part of him wished to draw out their anguish until their request carried the desperation it deserved, he was no longer in their small, petty world with an infinity of toil behind him and an infinity yet left to slog through. Now, he had a set _timeline_ , and a respectable standard by which to hold himself. Such behavior would be unsightly before a Convocation member, never mind in the midst of Diateichisma.

He said, certain to keep his voice level and unaffected, “As it just so happens, I can help.”

One of the mortals muttered in a tone they clearly thought would not reach his ears: “I would hope so. You’ve the most experience in his kidnappings.”

Another hissed, confirming the speaker to be as he suspected: “Alisaie!”

“Am I wrong? Must I forget simply because we have need for his particular skills?”

 _Children._ They never stopped chattering.

He ignored them.

Fandaniel could help as well, but it was likely she did not know the nuances of the Exarch’s weak signature, and he did not feel like taking the time to properly share it.

True to the mortals’ word, it hadn’t been long since the Exarch had disappeared from their midst. A good thing, too, as his residual energy upon the area was quickly dispersing amidst the much brighter beacons of Diateichisma’s populace. Another’s energies had wrapped itself around his-- the kidnapper, obviously, as the sparking edge of a hasty teleportation spell yet lingered.

“Who took him?” Fandaniel asked the mortals, thankfully taking Emet-Selch’s silence as a need for concentration and not a bid for her support. She crouched to speak more on their level, in a move that struck him as uncomfortably similar in intent to Hythlodaeus’. He’d forgotten: they were both kind souls.

“One of your people. She called herself Circe.”

Alarm lit the air. Emet-Selch felt his own join it, although more muted.

“Did she say why?”

“No. She’d said she was about to create a sculpture, not _kidnap._ ”

Tracing personal teleportation was not a simple feat, but neither was it particularly difficult. It simply took a bit of time.

Emet-Selch tuned them out to speed up the process. _Circe._ Based on her signature, her creative potential wasn’t too large. Hardly more than the average primary schooler. 

He caught the teleport’s invisible thread between his fingers and extended his awareness to its destination. Happily, she hadn’t gone far; happier, the Exarch’s signature had made it as well. Close as they were, he needed only to focus himself to gauge their state. 

What he found was not encouraging.

It was, in fact, alarming.

“Emet-Selch? -- Wait, just a moment!”

He did not.

With a smooth pull upon the thread, he dove to its end.

**. . .**

What he stepped into was, for a place like Diateichisma, pure chaos.

Fire climbed hard-plastic posts. Bins filled with animal feed blazed, its siding bubbling and bursting in a melting mess. Steel bolts and supports glowed a dangerous red, while the thin metal roofing buckled and groaned under the ballooning heat of thick, black smoke. The air was thin, though it felt thick upon a breath: it invaded his every physical sense, crowding his mouth and nose and eyes, while the fire’s dull roar packed his ears with cotton.

Considering the shoddy craftsmanship of the structure and its apparent long-term abandonment, the fire hadn’t been burning _long._ It was just making short work of what little it had to feed upon.

Long had it been since fire played stranger to Hades. Some nights, it almost became a friend: it meant a visage of his home, after all, even if it was dosage in yellows and reds.

But there existed an instinctual fear of asphyxiation in all living creatures that breathed, whether or not it was necessary. So he summoned himself a shield of air, pushing out the smoke and heat; and, through the newly clear space, he searched for the reason he stepped into this mess. With how low the smoke’s thick line dipped, he folded his essence into a smaller body without a second thought. This was a body he could discard, and robes he did not mind dirtying. One he did not mind if it caught fire, unpleasant though such deaths tended to be. 

Death would not be visiting here. As he filtered out the fire’s sound-sucking roar, he caught the sound of muffled coughing underneath it, and turned in that direction.

He found his target upright through virtue of his ridiculous staff and one knee that refused to bend, his typically pristine robes dusted grey with ash. He swayed in place and nearly fell in the short time it took Hades to reach him and extend the protective shield over him.

Provided suddenly with clear air, the Exarch’s coughing grew far worse. Watering eyes, the pupils blown wide, he looked to Hades with abject confusion that morphed quickly into terror. Likely, he did not comprehend what he was seeing. Hades reached for his shoulder to steady him; the Exarch, ever contrary, lurched away in a poorly-planned bid for escape, and at last took the tumble his exhausted body had been fated for.

That would do no good. Hades caught the back of his robes and hauled him up before he hit the ground. The Exarch proved a light passenger, as well as a remarkably foldable one. Stocky though he was with muscle, he was also unreasonably small, and fit easily across Hades’ arms. For an expected moment, the Exarch fought his grip, struggling to be let down even as his coughing did not abate and his legs certainly wouldn’t hold his weight. Hades left him to it, easy as it was to keep hold against such weak protests.

“This is the second time I’ve saved your life,” he informed the Exarch. “You should be more grateful.” 

The Exarch continued his struggling, heedless of anything beyond his own mind and body.

Typical mortal.

Above them, metal wrenched free from metal with a great screech. 

Being crushed would _not_ do.

Before it fell upon them and broke their shield, Hades summoned a portal to take them to a nearby point of safety.

That turned out to be just outside of the burning building. The portal dropped them on the edge of the fire’s heat, whereupon Hades finally identified the structure for what it was: a dilapidated barn tagged with the jagged stamp for demolition, but apparently forgotten. Diateichisma’s records really were in an unacceptable state. Well, fortunate for them, the Exarch’s dalliance had kickstarted their abandoned project. Unfortunately, without intervention, the grasses around the building were liable to catch. 

He would fire-proof the nearby vegetation soon enough. 

First: the Exarch’s coughing lessened to gulping breaths and, finally, an uncomfortable wheezing. His eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed but stubbornly squinting into the evening’s fading light, yet watered from the smoke. The fur on his ears had singed from stray embers, and one side of his face, near his temple, boasted the beginnings of an impressive bruise. His hands continued to clutch his staff, though the fingers compulsively clenched and relaxed as shudders ran through him.

Combined with how confusion continued to cloud his expression, the likelihood of a concussion was high. He would need a healer.

Second: outside of the building, stood a shell-shocked Circe.

One glance, and he knew her creative potential was, indeed, low. Bottom-of-the-barrel, even. The Exarch outpaced her by miles. Hells below, half the mortals outpaced her in potential alone. Was she even of their people?

Strangely, impossibly, _she was._ He very much wished she was not. 

“Who are you?” She dared to ask of him. “How did you-- why are you here?”

That was a stupid question, considering he stood before her with her target in his arms.

She didn’t even understand what she’d grabbed. Blind, greedy fool. How was she one of theirs?

Whatever reason she thought good enough for her conduct, he cared not. He set the Exarch down on the ground, careful not to jostle his head further, and banished the sole rock within skull-knocking range should he suffer a fit. The Exarch blinked his unfocused eyes rapidly and slurred an incomprehensible protest at being left alone, but then seemed to find the flat ground quite agreeable indeed and rolled onto his side, half-curling around his staff. His bruise looked even worse at that angle.

“You look like him, but you’re…” 

She fell silent. Her mind prodded, fumbled, against the edges of his.

In the time it took her to gasp, he sunk icy hooks into her blundering mind. Reflexively, she jerked back. For the tear of the claws he kept in her mind, she gasped again. Immediately, her knees buckled, and she fell to her hands.

“Allow me to spare us both from your worthless theorizing. As it is clear you know not who you’ve meddled with, I will elucidate here.”

Centuries with Elidibus and Lahabrea and their half-unsundered brethren had taught him more than a few tricks in teaching lessons about overstepping boundaries, whether physical, mental, or otherwise. The first step was to ensure he had secured the upper hand. Her mind was an unshielded mess of anxiety and regret. The second was to find the closest bubble of surface thought-- harmless if destroyed, albeit frustrating and discomforting-- and _rip._

He had secured the upper hand. He found her uncoordinated bubble of surface thoughts. He--

Someone pulled at his robe’s hem.

His concentration broke, and he redirected his attention downward. There, the Exarch glared up at him: one eye squeezed close, the other working double-time at conveying to him unimpressed displeasure, a sharp downward twist to his mouth. He’d managed to prop himself up on one arm. The other snagged in the black-and-gold lining of his Garlean overcoat.

For his attention, the Exarch gave his hem another harsh yank. Then, before Emet-Selch’s eyes, the Exarch’s focus weaved in-and-out, and uncertainty replaced his determination. His gaze fell upon his hand in Emet-Selch’s hem, which he regarded with doubt and a complete lack of understanding of its intent.

 _Brat._ Even concussed, he would not quit his interference.

The Exarch so distracted, Emet-Selch returned his focus to Circe. He yet had claws in her mind, waiting to rip her concentration apart.

Then, unbidden, the image she made really struck him. 

She wore the robes of his people. She wore the white mask of their most vulnerable. She was on her hands and knees, quivering in fear before him.

All at once, he felt sick. At her, at her deeds. At him, and his own.

 _Calm down,_ a voice whispered to him. _Distance yourself, if you must. Go take a nap. You’re always at your most obnoxious when you’re tired._

It was not the usual whispering voice in his mind. Instead, it sounded an awful lot like Hythlodaeus. A voice he’d heard in person not forty-eight hours prior, and would hear again, once they all left this dismal town and returned to Amaurot.

“... This being is registered under the Convocation of Fourteen’s oversight, with primary responsibility belonging to me. As his records are listed exclusively in Amaurot, your lack of knowledge may be considered reasonable. So that we are clear on where we stand, I am Emet-Selch of the Thirteenth Seat.” He lifted his claws from her mind. She whimpered, loud enough to be heard even through the fire -- or, perhaps he listened especially for it. “Ensure the fire does not spread any farther, and that whatever remains of the structure is fully contained and properly demolished. Then, would you agree that your business here is done?”

She nodded hastily, her mask almost slipping from her nose. She raised her head tentatively, her mouth dropping open to undoubtedly offer apologies upon apologies.

If she spoke and he was forced to listen to her voice, he was not sure he would be able to restrain himself from teaching her a lesson.

“Good. I will personally inform your council of the happenings here today, so that they might best conduct with you any further business they believe to be prudent under the circumstances.”

That froze her solid. 

_Finally._ Some peace from this evening’s idiocy.

Before she could ruin it, he raised his gloved hand, and snapped.

**. . .**

Fandaniel was in the midst of saying for the umpteenth time, “I am sure he will be back soon,” when Emet-Selch -- looking once more like the late Garlean emperor, complete with a haughty expression -- reappeared with a crispy, ash-covered Exarch curled at his feet.

Deja vu was uncomfortable at the best of times. 

It was far worse when the deja vu was, in fact, a very real and accessible memory, and a terrible one at that. 

Emet-Selch, perhaps sensing the Scions’ collective agitation, said: “He likely suffers a concussion, but little else. The burns are mostly for show.”

Fandaniel, as the only one of them not plagued by memories of an Emet-Selch at the end of his rope and an Exarch facing certain death, sputtered, “Are you joking, _now_? He looks terrible. And you look shorter! Where is Circe, what--”

“Attend him, if you would,” Emet-Selch said with his eyes pinned on Urianger, “for I now have other matters to see to.”

Left with little option, his tongue momentarily stilled, Urianger nodded. 

Emet-Selch’s gaze narrowed, and his lip curled. Before they could properly digest the odd expression of almost-contempt, almost-resentful-gratitude, he said, “I’ve a report to file. I’ll bring a copy for your perusal, Fandaniel, when we meet again at tomorrow’s train. Do make sure not to wait for me at the hotel, tonight or in the morning,” stepped back and away from the Exarch’s crumpled form, and disappeared into the same dark aetherial portal he’d arrived in.

Drawing his astrolab and cards, Urianger immediately dropped to the Exarch’s side and set out to assess his damages. True to Emet-Selch’s word, the Exarch suffered only a concussion and a very dry, very inflamed throat. Considering the burns on his robes, smoke was the likely culprit.

The other Scions quickly gathered around. There was a palpable sense of relief when Urianger confirmed that Emet-Selch had, in fact, continued to tell the truth, and their memories of a dying Exarch weren’t being intentionally recreated before their eyes.

“Does he always pop in and out like that?” Fandaniel blurted, her bafflement overriding any other emotion. “Without actually explaining _anything?_ ”

She’d told them that he’d clued her in about the time travel, impending Doom, and, though she didn’t use the term, how they were sundered Amaurotine souls. That she remained surprised by Emet-Selch’s ‘new’ behaviors was understandable, but a bit unfortunate.

“Oh, definitely,” Alisaie replied. She’d crossed her arms defensively, though her tone was all exasperation. “Eventually, you almost get used to it.”

**. . .**

The walk to the train was, in many ways, a walk of quasi-shame.

For Fandaniel, anyway. The Scions watched as a few townspeople showed up on the platform to see them off, and then a few councilors. Fandaniel bid farewell to the councilors individually, but unlike their introductions, the atmosphere was decidedly tense. None of them seemed to know how to address it without causing an improper scene, however, and so the tension grew and grew and grew until Fandaniel finally said, “I must settle these beings in before we leave, you understand,” and the councillors made hasty, “Oh, certainly,” murmurings, and all parties at last ducked their job-mandated responsibility of being nice to one another by cleanly separating.

“No matter how many times we are forced into this song and dance, I fear I will never grow used to it,” Alisaie muttered as they entered the train. 

Alphinaud nudged her with an elbow. “Please. This is naught compared to our entrance -- and exit -- in Ishgard. That had been memorable.”

“Trial by combat would fit that bill. Oh, yes, Tataru told me all about it.”

Alphinaud winced. “Well. If you heard the whole story, you can’t deny it was our best option at the time.”

“I really hope trial by combat isn’t what it sounds like, because it sounds absolutely barbaric,” Fandaniel said, waving them all into their train car’s room, her _everything_ very obviously flustered from their narrow escape from the councillor’s passive aggressive wrath, “so if it is, don’t tell me until I’ve had something to eat and we’ve started moving away from this place.”

She closed the room’s door once they were all in, and then settled into her seat with a large, put-upon sigh. After a second, she folded forward, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. 

“Politics agree with you as much as they do me, hm?” Alisaie asked, idly.

In answer, Fandaniel groaned.

“This was a near-disaster on every front... It was supposed to be simple!”

“That should’ve been your tip-off something was going to go wrong,” Thancred said. He had loaned the Exarch a shoulder to lean on, and helped him onto the comparatively high-set train bench. The Exarch took the aid with as much dignity as he could, murmuring his thanks as he gingerly set himself at the end of the bench and leaned heavily into the corner wall. His eyes immediately drooped to half-mast. 

As he’d hardly the energy to get out of his bed in the morning, the Scions were silently grateful he accepted the help as well as he did. Although Urianger had healed his bruising and fire-reddened skin as well as the concussion -- including a warning that those had the tendency to linger in unexpected ways-- the Exarch had admitted he couldn’t recall much of what happened after Circe took him. There had been a fire, clearly, and he was fairly certain he’d caused it, though he couldn’t remember why. Circe had, in a panic, knocked him down; the fire had been _everywhere_ (spoken with a hollow, far-away look that none of them nagged him into elaborating upon), and at some point after that, Emet-Selch had picked him up and brought him back to them. Though he professed that Urianger's magics worked perfectly, he then expressed a keen desire to retire somewhere quiet and lick his no-longer-existent wounds, thank you.

Unless there had been more to the Circe story (and there very well could have), they thought him more prone to exhaustion than he had been in the First. But, that was a question for after they’d returned to the Tower’s privacy.

“That looks like Odysseus,” Ryne commented from her spot: the windowsill, which she’d climbed onto as soon as possible.

“How can you tell?” Y’shtola asked, only partially joking.

“His gait. It’s lighter than the others. And... that he’s late. It seems like a habit.” Ryne pressed her hands against the glass, and tilted her head farther to see the platform despite her bad angle. “He’s just arrived with Emet-Selch.”

Fandaniel’s head snapped up.

“They’re talking to the councillors… Odysseus is waving good-bye... Now they’re both boarding the train.”

“Both?” Fandaniel echoed.

Ryne nodded.

“We’re leaving in a matter of minutes. What in the _world_ could he possibly have left to discuss with us?”

“I don’t think discussion is what he has in mind,” Alphinaud commented, a mite awkwardly.

“I didn’t accidentally pack anything of his, did I? -- What am I saying. How would I have anything of his, I hadn’t seen him beyo--ond, hello! Odysseus! To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to the blue-masked figure in the doorway. His right hand lingered on the door handle, the slope of his shoulders nearly contrite. In his left hand was a briefcase, slim and black with blue trim. It looked hardly big enough to carry a dozen rolls of paper. It probably was just a fancy bag for one of their thin tablets.

Every eye took in Odysseus. But the majority shifted swiftly to who loomed over his shoulder. For there stood Emet-Selch, red-masked and seemingly unruffled. No sign of the previous day’s excursion marred his visage, though they had not seen him at the hotel and, according to Fandaniel, had not received even the barest communication from him after their departure in the park. 

Odysseus, oblivious to the Scion’s diverted attention, said, “My intention is not to burden your travels. I apologize for the unexpected intrusion, but I believed it best that the Convocation hears from Diateichisma directly as to the incidents which occurred this week.”

“Funny.” Emet-Selch’s tone still drawled dry as a desert, no matter his form. “Those fields looked older than a week.”

Though he was surely not unaware of it, the jab rolled smoothly off Odysseus’ back. “Yes. Precisely why my in-person attendance seemed prudent.”

“That it would be,” Fandaniel said, slowly. “The Convocation’s schedule is often full, as you know.”

“I have been provided permission to wait however long it takes,” he assured her.

“To speak plainly, the schedule is busy at a good time, and considering recent complications at Amaurot’s borders...”

“The mystery tower.” A small smile spread across his face. “I will admit some curiosity at seeing it in person rather than through a screen. Does it truly reach so high as to interrupt cloud formation?”

Someone half-smothered their snort in response to _that._

The someone was the Exarch, although when attention shifted in his direction, he quickly feigned sleep. Fortunately for him, he did not have to do much to look pathetically passed-out.

“Not to my knowledge,” Fandaniel replied a bit blankly. The whole interaction -- most likely, the whole trip -- had thrown her off-guard, and she seemed to struggle to regain her footing. After a moment, her shoulders drooped in defeat. She said, her tenor somewhat wobbly, “You will have to observe for yourself, I suppose. But, um. Do recall that civilians are not allowed past the caution tape.”

“Not even councillors of minor towns, hm?”

She cracked a smile. “Not even them, no.”

“A shame. At least Amaurot has many other sites for me to see. As I told Emet-Selch, I have never been. He insisted I see it, and I thought him quite right.” He glanced over his shoulder at his quiet shadow, then looked back in at them. His smile quieted, but remained. “Regardless, I acknowledge that I have dropped a potentially unpleasant surprise at your feet by accompanying you back. I will be in 3-A if you have need of me; otherwise, I will not take up any more of your time.”

And with that, he raised a hand in farewell, gave Emet-Selch a respectful nod, and took his leave. 

Emet-Selch entered the room then, closing the door -- and pointedly flipping the lock -- behind him. 

“You sure were busy last night,” Fandaniel accused him as he took his seat next to her. “Canoodling with Odysseus. I wouldn’t have guessed it, because I can’t fathom what you possibly have to discuss, aside from both of your tendencies to be late.”

He rushed not to answer her. In fact, he looked to have nary a care. He glanced over each Scion, lingering especially long on the Exarch. 

A few Scions bristled reflexively, positive there would be a cost to his help on the day before.

His lip curled at them when he saw their hackles raise, as if he _didn’t_ deserve their distrust. After that, he finally turned his attention back to Fandaniel.

Settling into the seat in a manner that heralded a nap on the horizon, he tilted his head back against the bench’s plush headrest. 

“We have several hours’ ride. It will take ten minutes to catch you up to speed on the very little I did while outside of your watchful presence.” He waved a lazy hand through the air, then linked it with his other upon his chest. “I see no need to rush.”

Fandaniel froze. Unfroze. Diverted her gaze abruptly to the window, and placed her hands oh-so-intentionally on her knees. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, ‘my watchful presence.’”

“Allow me to summarize, then.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she muttered, a finger tapping nervously on her knees. 

“Elidibus sent me on a servant’s errand, and you as chaperone to ensure I did not pocket the master’s silver.” Vague amusement entered his voice. “I _do_ so hope I’ve passed the evaluation.”

Fandaniel stooped low in her seat. “Keep on pushing your luck, and I won’t be able to make any assurances.”

His amusement faded. “You do understand the need for discretion regarding what we discussed off the record.”

Fandaniel went quiet.

And stayed quiet, even after Emet-Selch dropped his hands from their comfortable place on his chest.

The train’s whistle blew. In the room, the Scions remained still, their attention riveted to the discussion that, all at once, felt much more important than Emet-Selch’s mere reputation.

Indeed, though assuredly not borne from compassion, Emet-Selch said, “On this, I speak not with one voice. You believe the mortals would be left to their own devices if they were revealed to be not only natural, but many millennia’s worth of a Star’s futile efforts to recreate our people?”

Fandaniel’s head snapped to his direction. Steel straightened her back and sharpened her voice. “Are you insinuating harm would befall them from the Convocation?”

“I am insinuating they will act _rationally_ and _reasonably_ as academics and scholars.”

“Their well-being would be assured,” Fandaniel hedged. Then, with steel still lacing her voice, “You have yet to convince me of why _your_ state must be kept a secret. If it is disbelief that worries you, one look at your memories would convince any of the truth you speak.”

“Perfected our bureaucracy may be, bureaucracy it yet is. And trust me,” Emet-Selch sighed, “I’ve had much experience with bureaucracy. At this juncture, it isn’t what’s needed.”

“In preparing for the end of our world. For this so-called Doom.”

“Precisely so.”

Fandaniel frowned at him.

Emet-Selch looked back. After a time, he frowned back. 

_Well?_ he seemed to demand. _What will be next? Will you make me regret telling you?_

At that, Fandaniel’s steel buckled and bent.

“I’ve always advocated for less paperwork and procedure. You were always the loudest in opposition.” She again stooped low in her seat, and turned her head away. It was about as close to resignation as a pride-filled Amaurotine got, the Scions thought. “This isn’t how I’d hoped you’d come to see sense.”

“The feeling is distressingly mutual.”

Fandaniel did not reply. 

Silence descended. In it, Emet-Selch contemplated her a moment more.

The train began moving. Engrossed as she’d been by their exchange -- especially regarding the implied _you’ll yet again be a poked-at bird in a cage_ \-- Ryne nearly lost her footing on the windowsill, light though the train’s movement felt within the room. She hastily stepped down to sit on the bench, just in case.

Apparently satisfied that Fandaniel had effectively given her word to keep quiet, Emet-Selch settled back into his seat. 

“I should mention,” he said, his voice light, “Hythlodaeus knows, too.”

Fandaniel threw up her hands. “Of _course_ he does! Such are the perks of being Emet-Selch’s only close friend.”

“Closest friend,” Emet-Selch immediately corrected with a light frown, “not only.”

“That your first-year apprentices memorized your coffee order does not make them close friends.”

He made an unimpressed (and unconvinced) noise. “If you are finished with your ad hominem detour, would you like to hear what all occurred last night? I have knowledge relating to both the Exarch’s circumstances, as well as Odysseus’ position regarding the decline in educational opportunities for those residing outside of Amaurot’s walls.”

“We have the whole ride to cover that,” Y’shtola cut in, calm and aloof as could be. Again, the Exarch ineffectively tried to smother his snort. “Why rush?”

Fandaniel’s mouth quirked up on one side, and she sat a little taller. “I concur. Seeing as it will only take you ten minutes, _I see no need to rush._ ”

Emet-Selch scoffed. “Impressions are not your strength.”

“On the contrary, I believe that was pretty good,” Y’shtola said.

“I knew immediately who she was quoting,” Alisaie added. 

“That’s all the necessary elements of a good impression, I’d say.”

“Have you any others?” Alisaie asked. 

Emet-Selch scowled.

“Have _you?_ ” Fandaniel returned, interest piquing her voice.

“ _You’ve committed the cardinal sin of boring me,_ ” stated Alisaie in a dreadful monotone, “ _and so I retire to my sulking._ ”

Startled, Fandaniel laughed.

“Sulk?” Emet-Selch repeated, incredulous. “Hardly anything I do can be termed as sulking. You’re misremembering.”

Fandaniel made a gesture as if to swat his protest away. “No, no, I can see it perfectly! His slouch, too, as he meandered off to do just that. _Cardinal sin_ , though, that’s-- you didn’t really say that, did you, Hades? Please tell me you didn’t.”

“He definitely did,” Thancred said. “And then he went to sit under a tree not sixty yalms away.” 

“You all _had_ been acting tediously,” Emet-Selch sniffed. 

Fandaniel shook her head in mock disappointment. “How dramatic.”

Though Thancred had his arms crossed, he wasn’t as closed-off as he typically kept himself when stuck in a room with the Amaurotines.

Y’shtola had something approaching a smirk on her face. The Exarch had given up feigning sleep, and instead hid his grin behind his hand. Ryne, Urianger and Alphinaud, thinking it best to stay out of the matter but amused despite themselves, watched on with quirked eyebrows and small smiles.

“We are exchanging notes some time,” Fandaniel told them all very seriously. “I must hear more.”

“How encouraging,” Emet-Selch muttered under his breath. Then, to all of them, complete with the haughty tone they’d grown so familiar with: “Next time we travel together, we book separate rooms. Better yet, I’ll teleport ahead.”


	7. Chapter 7

According to the planned schedule set out by the Administrative Bureau, Fandaniel and Emet-Selch returned three days early. Fandaniel explained to the Convocation and, again later in a private one-on-one meeting with Elidibus, that the nymphs would need re-evaluation and the town’s expansionist tendencies observed, but otherwise, all was as it should be. When a week passed without a complaint or request for additional aid from Diateichisma, the peculiar case of two Convocation members dealing with such a small matter was quietly closed. After, all involved breathed easier.

(Unbeknownst to Amaurot, Diateichisma conducted its own investigation into the inexplicable behavior and claims of knee-high arsonists from a previously unremarkable citizen. But then, they always had been bad at providing notice or keeping records.)

The Scions were not pleased at being shut into the Tower again. So displeased were they, they ventured to beg an escort from any Amaurotine to give them the time of day, which was most often Hythlodaeus and very occasionally Fandaniel. 

(They did not request Emet-Selch’s escort.)

“Do you even have a job?” One, Alisaie, asked Hythlodaeus on his third visit in three days, whereupon he’d happily again agreed to walk with a few Scions down the block. “Everyone else seems so busy all the time, but you hang around here quite a bit. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Yet that certainly sounds like a complaint,” Hythlodaeus teased.

“You’d know if it were a complaint,” said her blue-ribboned twin. “She is, above all, honest.”

She gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “Precisely. I am always honest, just as you are always complimentary.”

They, Hythlodaeus, Urianger and Y’shtola were the ones out and about that day. As it so happened, they were on their way back from their three-hour excursion. They’d walked the length of four blocks and taken the metro-porter to Urianger’s favorite spot, a planetarium. Well, it was his favorite insomuch as Hythlodaeus could tell by how he always proposed a stop there, and how (when the others agreed after much put-upon sighing) he lingered at every exhibit long enough for his companions to grow restless. Despite not being able to read the signs and knowing very little true astronomy, he often drew cards from a pack and asked incredibly on-point questions about the exhibit’s meaning. 

To Hythlodaeus’ disappointment but understanding, they did not have many places they could go. Parks, planetariums, aquariums, museums-- anything that involved more standing around and looking were fine. Libraries, restaurants, more interactive museums or places of debate-- these, they were turned away at the door politely but firmly. Anywhere they went, they drew attention. At best, Hythlodaeus received quiet but pointed comments about how he should better instruct such youth to dress, and at worst, Amaurotines either stared or fled, their discomfort palpable even in their wake.

But despite the attention, they assured him it was much better than being cooped up in the ‘dusty Tower’ for days on end. Though it seemed a very large, habitable space based strictly on their forms and basic needs, he supposed any place without variation or challenge would grow tiring.

“I do have work,” he said, realizing with some surprise that he hadn’t spoken about it with them. It had been a long time since he’d been with people who did not already know, or who only cared to speak to him because they knew. “I’m an architect, same as Emet-Selch.”

“Yet thy current work lies not with the Tower?” Urianger asked, sounding genuinely curious. 

Y’shtola, Hythlodaeus saw, listened rather intently. She walked at the front of their little group, and yet both of her ears were turned back toward them.

She had a tendency to ask him questions that seemed sensical at the time, but were in many respects _pointed._ Toward what, Hythlodaeus would have liked to know; but as it did not appear to be anything actively harmful, he continued to indulge her curiosity without demanding its cause.

“I fear my current work is much less exciting than your Tower. No, my present work is at the Hall of Rhetoric. There have been innovations in facilitating better debate through virtual environments. I am there to ensure the rooms are adequately prepared to handle the myriad of oddities my people have the tendency to summon when they are impassioned.” 

“Such as?” Y’shtola asked then.

“A recent incident with a lava-bear comes to mind.” Virtual environments provided a menagerie of difficult-to-access landscapes, so as to allow participants to experience in body that which they debated in word. It also meant a careless debater who did _not_ follow the Hall’s restrictions on Creation magic within its boundaries had the tendency to bring dangerous designs into being to prove a point. “It melted right through the floor and onto the unsuspecting heads of debaters one level down. No one was ultimately harmed, although everyone was quite startled; the lava-bear most of all.”

Alisaie laughed. “If I’d known lava-bears were allowed in a debate, I’d have seconded Alphinaud’s request to give the place a try.”

If only she knew. Lava-bears were some of the more tame debate tactics that the Hall of Rhetoric had seen.

“As a result of the nature of my duties, my work comes and goes depending on the reported incidents of that day. Moreover, I simply work when I am not here.” 

“When do you sleep?”

Oh. Since they knew Emet-Selch best, they probably didn’t know the truth behind that. 

“Sleep is largely optional for us. Same with eating, drinking, exercising… We’re encouraged to maintain our bodies, of course, and there are times it is borderline necessary to refresh the mind or soul, but if there is something better to be done,” he shrugged, “then there is no need to put it off for something like sleep.”

Alphinaud asked, “Has anyone told Emet-Selch that?”

“He must have missed that lesson.” Hythlodaeus turned his tone solemn. “At this point, it would be cruel to inform him. Think of all the hours he’s lost to merely dreaming.”

Perhaps Emet-Selch had done nothing but sleep when in Diateichisma, as his mood had significantly improved upon his return. He continued to drape his soul’s presence over Hythlodaeus more than was proper in public-- and soon, Hythlodaeus planned on sitting him down to tell him to get a grip and back it up-- but the bristling outbursts had drastically reduced. He felt more focused, more centered.

And yet, when asked to expand on the so-called terminus virus he’d started to tell Hythlodaeus about before they had been interrupted, he barely told him anything new. 

The terminus virus started with a scream. It caused their people’s Creation magics to spiral out of control and, in a manner of speaking, eat them from the inside out. It infected not only them, but the Star itself. It had probably originated from the Star’s core. It couldn’t be healed through traditional means, as it fed off aether. It rewrote all universal laws as they knew it.

 _How did you survive it?_ Hythlodaeus had asked.

 _With help,_ was all he’d said, and then lapsed into a contemplative silence. Just as Hythlodaeus had been about to reach out and shake him to make him continue, he’d asked, _What does Zodiark mean to you, my friend?_

 _I recall nothing by that name,_ he’d replied slowly. _Should I?_

Another stretch of silence. Then, _Not yet._

It had been an ominous end to their conversation. After that, Emet-Selch promised he would have more for Hythlodaeus to work with once he compiled his knowledge on the topic properly, and then refused to speak further on the matter.

As Hythlodaeus had absolutely zero luck finding anything about a Zodiark or even vaguely terminus-sounding in any records, the lack of additional information was annoying. 

It was about time he’d asked the Scions, probably. 

But they needed incentive to be honest with him. 

Fortunately, he had just the thing.

Once they reached the Tower’s doors, he had them pause before entering. 

At their curious looks, he said with a smile in voice and face, “I fear I must now attend to my work.”

“If there’s any lava-bears, please let us know,” Alisaie said. “Or lava-anything, actually.”

“I will do my best to inform you,” he promised, honestly amused. “Before I go, I wished to invite you and the rest of your group to the up-coming Olethros festival. It’s set in three days' time. The primary celebrations are located downtown, but at night, the festivities are moved to the river. There’s fireworks, lantern floats, dancing… I think you’d enjoy it.”

“Olethros?” Alphinaud asked.

“Put simply, at its core, it’s a celebration of renewal after destruction.” He was getting better at reading their facial-based emotions: at that, their expressions twisted into surprise. Hythlodaeus shrugged one shoulder and shook his head, trying to ward off any unpleasantness that went with the surprise. “To be honest, the original meaning has been mostly lost. It’s really just an excuse for everyone to take a holiday, wear something bright and ridiculous, and set off custom party-poppers without being cited for a noise complaint.”

“Your day-to-day lives are,” Alisaie caught Alphinaud’s narrowed eyes, coughed, and continued with, “so… interesting.”

“And our attendance wouldst be proper?” Urianger asked. “This seems quite the festival.” Which was his way of saying, _and not a time to tout out the soul-bearing concepts_ , probably.

He had a point. But Hythlodaeus had thought it through, and so said confidently, “I’ve designed a marker that will ensure everyone treats you with respect and decency. It’s unobtrusive, don’t worry; it will fit around your wrists without trouble. In any case, everyone should be too busy celebrating to notice you. If they do, simply say you are running an errand for me. They won’t think twice about it.”

As long as they hadn’t been paying too much attention to the tabloids, a few of which actually had pictures of the Scions on their covers. But, considering the level of hallucinogens and alcohol imbibed during Olethros, the likelihood of recognition was extremely low.

“Will you not be in attendance?” Y’shtola inquired.

“I will, but I imagine being escorted everywhere grows tiring. Besides-- and no offense- I have a few plans for that night that you certainly won’t want to attend. Very boring, sit-around-debating sort of things,” he added with a look toward Alisaie. She shook her head at him, but by her smile, it was all in good fun.

He truly wished he could read their emotions without risking harm to their souls. It would make communicating so much easier.

Ah, well. The challenge in deciphering them was somewhat fun.

“We will first need to ask the others,” Alphinaud said, in addition to Urianger and Y’shtola’s nods, “but I’m sure they’d be interested. That sounds like great fun, Hythlodaeus. Thank you.”

He waved his thanks away. “It is the least I could offer. I would hope you come to enjoy Amaurot while you are here, regardless of the unexpected circumstances of your arrival.”

“In that case, especially,” he repeated, his voice an odd octave lower and his eyes dropping to the ground, “thank you.”

Hythlodaeus contemplated the image Alphinaud made-- abashed, almost, only that didn’t feel quite right -- but, ultimately, filed it away for a future understanding. 

Unsure of what else to do, Hythlodaeus nodded deeply to accept the gratitude, and shortly thereafter made his goodbyes.

**. . .**

“It’s a festival… Thancred, we should go.”

“What for? We’ve been to festivals before.”

“Not an Amaurotine festival.”

“It can’t be that different. There’s only so many ways to celebrate.”

“Thou agitation at being stuck indoors wears at even the strongest of us. A trip amongst the populace may do thou good.”

“-- Plus, Hythlodaeus invited us.”

Thancred snorted. 

Ryne laced her hands behind her back and gave him the biggest puppy-dog eyes she could muster. 

Alisaie had told her such tactics would work on convincing Thancred to do the right thing. This was the tactic’s first intentional test run.

At the look, Thancred crossed his arms tighter across his chest, frowned lightly, and, after a moment, eyed her suspiciously.

Under his scrutiny, her puppy-dog look faltered, and her hands fell to her sides. 

She really wasn’t equipped for overt manipulation like that...

Except, Thancred didn’t just tell her they had to stay inside. Instead, he rolled his eyes and groused, “Oh, if _Hythlodaeus_ invited us…”

\-- That was very close to a ‘yes!’

Better yet, Urianger -- who had been watching the exchange from the kitchen table, a steaming cup of non-magic green tea in front of him -- threw in his metaphorical hat.

“Whatever thy imaginings of the worst outcome, it cannot--” Urianger paused, thought about it, and smoothly continued into, “Well, such worst outcomes are highly unlikely to come to pass.”

Thancred leveled an unimpressed look his way. “It isn’t the worst I’m worried about. It’s everything in between ‘fine’ and ‘troublesome.’ Think about it. We stopped at a park, _together_ , and the Exarch got kidnapped. We’re bound to be separated in a crowded festival; and once we are, who’s to say the Amaurotines will watch where they step?”

Possibly to escape having to reply to an obvious argumentative trap, Urianger took a sip of his tea.

“Everyone else is going,” Ryne countered, keeping her voice low and centered and resolutely _not_ letting out how she’d be on the verge of tears if everyone else went and they had to stay back because Thancred thought she might get _stepped on_. She wasn’t that small! Sometimes still, he really treated her like a brainless child. 

“What Amaurotines do is no concern to us.”

Ryne bit the inside of her cheek and resisted the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. 

“That’s not who I meant.”

Thancred furrowed his brow. 

Before he could say a thing more, Y’shtola poked her head into the kitchen. “Are you three ready yet? … What’s that look for, Thancred? Did you forget about the festival?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re going?”

She gave him a funny look. “Of course. We all are.”

He turned toward Urianger, who had gotten up to put his empty teacup by the sink. “How did I miss that conversation?”

“There hadn’t been a conversation. I believed it too obvious that we would attend to necessitate one.” Y’shtola held up her wrist and shook it. The plain, red, paper bracelets Hythlodaeus dropped off for them looked strange and foreign around her wrist. As it was a ticket to something outside and unescorted, it also looked magical. “At the least, we should see if these do encourage Amaurotines to leave us alone.”

“It’s also a great opportunity to see the city in motion,” Urianger noted quietly, “and to see it as it was meant to be seen: full of life and light, not shade and shadow.”

Thancred’s eyes darted to Ryne’s.

Whatever he saw in her expression, he folded immediately.

“Fine,” he sighed, shrugging and throwing up his hands as if any of them could force him to do anything, “we’ll go. I’m bringing my gunblade. You’re bringing your daggers. And Ryne, whatever anyone _else_ may do, we’re staying together.”

A grin split her face. “I’d hoped so! Okay, I’ll get the bracelets. I’ll grab one for you too, Urianger. See you in the Ocular!” 

Thancred’s face did a strange thing and his pose went awkward at her cheery declaration. He’d figure it out. Before he changed his mind, she hurried to grab the bracelets from the reading room’s main table where they’d piled them. Giving her a small smile as she passed, Y’shtola smoothly stepped out of her way.

“Thank you, Ryne,” Urianger called after her.

“Don’t run on the stairs, or you’ll trip!” Thancred added, because he just had to get the last word.

“Right!” She called back, and did not slow her speed. 

While she fetched the bracelets, she made a mental note to try to recreate the look later. Although she hadn’t meant for it to, it clearly worked better than the puppy-dog eyes.

**. . .**

The festivities’ red-and-gold banners, booths, and baubles pervaded every ilm of the river and its bank. The festivities’ cheer spread a few good malms beyond even that. Amaurotines meandered the streets and lingered on tassel- and ribbon-covered patios and balconies with delicious-smelling food in hand, their customarily dark robes draped in brightly colored and patterned shawls and sheets. Although every individual’s mynagerie of fabric differed slightly from one another upon inspection, the overall effect blurred them all together into a never-ending stretch of colorful celebration.

Thancred was done with it before they’d even reached the river’s edge.

It wasn’t that he had a problem with Amaurotines, exactly, although he knew the rest of the Scions thought he did and as it kept them from nagging him into acting more diplomatically, he did little to disabuse them of the notion. The thing was, every time they talked shop with Hythlodaeus about this-or-that cultural thing, or ‘investigated’ what made the locals tick, or tried to participate in the day-to-day of the city they’d been unwillingly trapped in, he was uncomfortably aware that the place was not only not for them, but was capital-D _Doomed._

Adjusting to the First had taken years. He’d struggled through it for the Source, for Minfilia new and old, and when those failed to be enough, because he had no other choice.

Adjusting to Amaurot was a choice. One he didn’t have the interest, let alone the energy, for.

On the train to Diateichisma, his body decided to remind him that it wasn’t actually his body, but a non-corporeal form tied distantly to a body that was _absolutely_ on death’s doorstep. He’d feigned the need for a nap when vertigo subsequently threatened to throw him on the floor. Had declined to follow the group because it persisted, his vision swimming white and his fading heart-beat loud in his ears.

The nap had helped a bit.

But it wouldn’t always. He’d discussed the matter with Y’shtola after the others left, just to know if she felt something similar. She had, to a lesser degree. 

It was going to get worse, he warned her. It’d get worse for all of them until they returned to their bodies.

 _Obviously_ , she’d said, _but just how do you propose we do that here and now?_

He didn’t know. 

He just knew they didn’t have time to be mucking around with _Amaurotine festivals._

Especially because while he didn’t have problems with Amaurotines generally, he did have problems with a few Amaurotines in particular.

Although he’d been out-voted on the matter, he refused to budge on his stance that Emet-Selch was _not_ a necessary evil. Once they found the Warrior of Light-- and they would, because she’d make her way back from wherever she ended up, as she always did (even if it took _a ridiculous length of time_ and left them in one hell of a lurch until she did)-- they’d need to conclude their battle with him, and it was not one Thancred intended for him to walk away from. The more the Scions ingratiated themselves with Emet-Selch and his soon-to-be ghost friends, the harder it’d be once they finished their fight. 

Ryne didn’t need to learn that kind of pain. She already struggled with the reality that most times, there _wasn’t_ a better answer.

At least Emet-Selch seemed to take Thancred’s tolerance-not-friendliness approach toward them as well. It would’ve rankled to be in agreement with the Ascian if it didn’t work to Thancred’s advantage. 

So. Emet-Selch was one thing.

Having to listen to Lahabrea give a keynote speech in _celebration of our grandest and oldest tradition, a testament to our great city’s resilience and commitment to striving toward betterment against all odds_?

No.

Just. No.

He wasn’t sure if the others clued into it being Lahabrea, as they’d entered earshot after the speech’s beginning. The only reason he knew was because he remembered the Ascian’s true voice as it echoed through his mind, heart and soul. As it smothered him in icy-cold darkness and stole _his_ voice, his body. 

There was no forgetting that voice. It’d plagued his nightmares and waking terrors for years.

It was currently echoing through the city streets closest to the river. Magical enhancement, no doubt. Lahabrea himself stood atop a platform on the river’s central bridge, his red mask a violent slash above his stupidly complex, purple-and-silver robes. Some Amaurotines stopped to listen. Some continued to chat amongst themselves, though their voices had lowered notably. Most regarded the speech as something expected but nothing too exciting. For all Thancred knew, Lahabrea may have been their Speaker for decades.

Alphinaud had a curious look on his face from the moment they’d caught the edges of the speech and made their way successfully through the crowd toward its source, stopping only once the raised platform and its occupant was in view. But then, Alphinaud had a curious look on his face since they’d ventured out without Hythlodaeus (who had messaged Y’shtola on her _phone_ that his festival plans had been moved up unexpectedly, and so he would have to meet them later in the night instead), so he’d be fine if Thancred wasn’t there to help indulge it. 

The thought occurred to him: that wasn’t the Lahabrea he knew. Not really.

What had the original Speaker been like? Did madness and cruelty lurk then and always in the very fabric of his soul, or had it been a disease born of too many years lived?

If Lahabrea died _here_ and _now_ , how much pain and suffering would be averted?

They had a white auracite fit for the job safely secured in the Tower. It had Emet-Selch’s name on it, but surely it had room for another.

…

He needed to be somewhere else. 

“I’m going to see what’s on the other end of this river,” he told Urianger, who stood next to him as the closest non-Ryne form. Which, speaking of. “Ryne.”

Clearly enraptured by the crowd around her, she startled at her name. As she’d learned from their years on the road, though, she didn’t protest or question. She looked to him, nodded, and fell in line. Once she did, he turned on a heel and started down the boardwalk along the river bank, _opposite_ the offending platform and its more offensive speech-maker.

The Exarch and Y’shtola noticed their departure. By their glance to each other, Thancred bet they’d follow in a bit.

They could do as they wished.

“Must thou travel alone?”

No. He just needed to travel fast.

Urianger picked up the meaning behind his one-shouldered shrug, and fell in line as well. 

He knew he was acting irrationally and unfairly toward Ryne, who had been excited to reach what seemed like the center of the festival; and Urianger, who was trying to be polite. 

He just...

He needed to move.

“I think I saw a game we could play,” Ryne said to Urianger. They walked a step behind Thancred. He tried to focus on their conversation, but it was difficult with _that voice_ yet dogging their feet. “It involved these orbs of light. They came in all sorts of colors. The goal was to merge them with other colors until the orb matched the game-leader’s color before the timer ran out. It seemed like fun.”

“Where did you see that? I missed it.”

That was Alphinaud. Thancred glanced over his shoulder, and noticed _all_ of them had followed. Without question or protest.

Huh.

“A few streets back,” Ryne said. “It was the booth opposite the one with the fried fish.”

“Ah, that’d be why I missed it…”

“I cautioned that it would suit everyone to eat before we departed,” Urianger said idly.

“Yes. Except, you did so _as_ we were departing.”

“I still think we should’ve at least asked if we could have one,” Alisaie said. “I haven’t seen anyone here use gil, or any equivalent. I think most everything’s free.”

“With how people take one look at our bracelets and all but run away, we’d probably have given the merchant a heart-attack if we spoke to them,” Y’shtola commented dryly.

“I like to think we’d have given them a fine story to tell.”

“Do you think we could find the game booth?” Ryne asked, only bolstered to try by the conversation. “Or any other? I’m not picky…”

“We could make our own,” the Exarch brought up. “Orbs of light, you said? If not a visual trick, they may have been minor elementals.”

“Games with elementals in this city invites excitement of the wrong sort, I think,” Y’shtola noted.

“Perhaps so.”

“How about we focus on lunch?” Alphinaud piped up. “Ideally something we haven’t had to cook for ourselves for once.”

Alisaie gave him a nudge in the side. “Funny for you to say. Urianger and the Exarch have been doing most of the cooking. Do you even remember how to fill a pot for stew?”

“I’ve made a fine stew before! Just ask-- hm-”

“-- A lunch we did not make ourselves would be exquisite,” Urianger said. He saved Alphinaud from explaining that the only person to have tried the stew had been Cahsi, and she was, _once again_ , not with them.

With every step, Lahabrea’s voice faded behind them. The festivities thinned somewhat in populace, though banners and flags and balloons continued to cover the boardwalk’s railings and the adjacent buildings’ sides. 

Thancred found it easier to take in the sights as the crowd fell behind them. Perhaps all their time stuck in that blasted Tower had started to turn him into even more of a hermit than he’d become on the First, fated now to be uncomfortable around strangers. More likely, it was the fact that even the smallest of these people loomed over them, and the only thing that kept them from being targeted for some nonsense about _concepts_ and _unusual soul-bearers_ was a flimsy paper bracelet and Hythlodaeus’ good will.

As if summoned by Thancred’s ill thoughts, Y’shtola dug her phone from her pocket and popped a headphone (which was an odd name: why was there a phone, and then another smaller phone for the head?) into one ear. After a moment of listening to what was on the other end, she informed them, “Hythlodaeus says he’s free now, if we wanted to meet up with him.”

“How would we find him in this rush?” The Exarch asked.

“He has a quiet spot atop a roof of a building by a designated metro-porter. Apparently there’s food and drink, and once night falls, the view is supposed to be ‘amazing,’ whatever that entails.”

“Nice as it is for him to offer food, now that Alphinaud reminded me, I can’t get the fried fish out of my head. I think I see a stand with more of them up ahead.” Alisaie pointed, and sure enough, it looked near-identical as the one they’d seen before. Maybe it was a brand. “We could try to grab some and then head that way.”

“That sounds good to me. Thancred?”

They all stopped walking.

A few steps later, he realized, and stopped too. He looked back at them. 

They didn’t demand to know why he’d turned away from the center of the festival they’d spent the better part of the early afternoon trying to reach. He had the vague feeling half of them wanted to return to that place-- Urianger, for one, who had sincerely been interested in observing the Amaurotines’ cultural tics-- but if his hunch was right, none spoke up to say that they would. More than they cared to get to know Amaurot, a fleeting, doomed city, they wanted to remain together.

Whatever last bit of dark emotion Lahabrea’s voice had kicked up, settled. 

Thancred gave them a carefully neutral shrug. “Alright. But before we go, ask Hythlodaeus what sort of drink he has, and if there’s any more we can pick up.”

Y’shtola rolled her eyes. “Certainly. A great use of my phone, that.”

“Ask what sort of food he has, too,” Ryne added. By the light in her eyes, her excitement had returned. “We could bring him some of the fish if he likes those.”

“Or he could send a message for the merchant to make sure we get the fish,” Alisaie interjected.

“Oh, yes, I will ask that right now. Anything else?” Y’shtola teased.

“He is well-respected, isn’t he?” Alphinaud asked. “He doesn’t give off the air, but by the way the others treat him, I’ve wondered.”

“I daresay he’s more respected than we give him credit for,” the Exarch said. “Far more than his modesty implies.”

Urianger noted, his words unintentionally somber, “A good friend to have on our side indeed.”

“Yeah, sure,” Thancred stepped closer to the group, bumping shoulders with Urianger, “but what sort of party does he host? That’s the real measure of a good friend. Well, Y’shtola? Has he said what sort of drink he’s got?”

“You’ll have to see yourself, because I’m not asking that. This phone is closed. It’s, as they say, powered off.”

“Then what’s the headphone still doing in your ear?”

“The river is not so far from us, Thancred. I could yet throw you in.”

**. . .**

Observing the festival from a distance improved it greatly. 

Or, more accurately: without Thancred’s notice, smaller gatherings had become more his scene. The gathering on the roof of Hythlodaeus’ apartment building had food, drink, and games aplenty. After Hythlodaeus introduced them by name and species (odd, but expected), the dozen-and-some-extra Amaurotines approached them with honest and open curiosity. When they proved no more interesting than anyone else, the party-goers invited them to partake in the games while they waited for night to fall (the _real_ start of the festivities, apparently, which was a comment that preemptively made Thancred want to send Ryne to the Tower early). 

When Ryne tentatively described the game she’d seen with the orbs, the Amaurotines not only knew what she meant, but jumped at the chance to recreate it for their joint use. When only Y’shtola, Urianger and the Exarch proved capable of manipulating the orbs as intended, the Amaurotines knocked their masks together to modify the game for Ryne, Alphinaud and Alisaie’s use.

All while Thancred was left to his own devices on a chair that actually fit him -- summoned by one of those kind Amaurotines for the Scion’s specific use, and a mug made for him too, although he would’ve been fine it was bigger, truly -- and a fruity beverage that he absolutely could not pronounce the name of, but which was smooth, easy to drink, and very alcoholic.

So. All in all, the evening shaped up quite well.

“Oh, look! They’re lighting the lanterns!”

“As has been said, this is certainly the highlight of the entire festival. Please, gather close to the railing.”

“Do you recall when you first saw the sight, Hythlodaeus?”

“Are you implying you don’t?”

“The viewing I attended had offered bottomless barrels of wine, which I believe impaired my vision, if not my memory…”

As they were bade, the Scions gathered to the railing. Thancred, mug clasped to his chest, found himself drawn in as well.

The sun sunk beyond the horizon line. Warm though his mind was and subsequently tilted his vision became, Thancred watched it go with a fascination he barely recognized. After five years without the sight and then only the briefest of weeks to re-learn it before again it disappeared, a true sunset never failed to catch his eye. Fortunately, despite the inherent claustrophobia of being trapped in one place indefinitely, the Tower afforded a fantastic view of the sun’s western descent.

A sunset that was matched by pinpricks of lights upon the sparkling river proved to be extra gorgeous.

The much-discussed lanterns were lantern _boats_. Simple things in concept, he supposed, as well as execution: they were balls of red, gold and white, and spread as a slow, massive wave from the river’s largest, central bridge. It was as if the river took in the hidden sun’s rays, and gentled it into warm pieces of starlight.

“Wow,” Ryne breathed. She stood on her tip-toes, her hands tight on the roof’s iron railing. Thancred, to her immediate left, couldn’t help but have his attention shift to her. 

Amazement widened her eyes. She tracked the lantern boats’ progress as they spread down the river, clearly enraptured. 

Eventually she looked away-- and up to him, her expression still lighter than anything he could remember being directed at him before. She said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Not trusting his ability to form the right words, he nodded.

She gave him the smallest smile, then turned back to the river. Still amazed. Still astonished. Still astonishing.

How’d he ever think looking at her could hurt? 

He’d been a fool. He was still a fool. And yet, she stuck around-- not entirely and only by necessity, but by choice.

He hid his face in his drink. 

And almost spit it out, as a hand settled gently and unexpectedly on his shoulder. 

When he managed to swallow and find who the hand belonged to, he came face-to-face with Urianger. Where the hand touched felt alight and over-sensitive. Urianger himself had an absurdly warm look on his face. Finding it akin to the sun, Thancred wasn’t certain he could look for very long. 

So he didn’t. He went to bury his face back in his mug-- except, traitor that it was, it proved to be _empty._ When he scowled and shook it upside-down just to make sure, Urianger patted him lightly on that same, now-burning shoulder.

“Mayhaps some water wouldst be best?”

“Night’s young,” Thancred protested, then thought about that, and added in a grumble, “so, yeah. Should pace myself, huh.”

“I do believe that ist a fine track to take.”

Urianger went with him to where they kept the drinks: a tall metal cabinet with a door that stuck closed and, like an icebox, kept the inside cold. The alcoholic drinks were in self-serve pitchers placed, perhaps intentionally, on the top shelf. The water came in clear, crinkly bottles, on the middle shelf. Thancred grabbed one of those after gazing longingly at the alcohol pitcher, if only to get Urianger to sigh that put-upon sigh of his.

True to expectation, Urianger sighed when Thancred hesitated too long before grabbing a water. The sound quirked the edge of Thancred’s mouth into a smirk, which he promptly turned on Urianger. If the smirk involved a hint of teeth and a quick dart of his tongue to wet dry lips, well, that wasn’t much.

Urianger’s face flushed.

He did a marvelous job not letting the feeling change the rest of his expression, or posture, or tone. Thancred was suitably impressed, because he was pretty sure he knew what he looked like and while his insides were a mess at best, his outsides very much weren’t.

“Thou,” Urianger stated, “art quite drunk.”

“Half-drunk, at most,” Thancred protested. He hadn’t drank _that_ much. “Their stuff doesn’t compare to a dwarf’s.” A thought hit him. He found himself happy to say it. “You tried a dwarf’s ale, didn’t you? Ul’dah’s lalafells wish they could compare. If they were around, they’d buy out the whole lot.”

“Their attempts wouldst spark a war between dwarf and lalafell so bloody as to rival any previous Calamity,” Urianger replied solemnly. 

Thancred’s smirk turned sloppy. Lopsided. Less smirk, more smile, maybe. 

“Can you imagine? There’s no winners in that fight. Except the on-lookers, I suppose; they’d easily reach where the soldiers couldn’t, to best hide whatever stray barrels might roll their way.”

Urianger made a noise of agreement, but then hampered his own camaraderie points by taking hold of Thancred’s shoulder again and steering him toward their newly conjured, perfectly reasonably sized chairs.

The Exarch and Y’shtola already took up two. Thancred took the free one to Y’shtola’s left, sitting heavier than he intended. He busied himself with opening his water bottle, so as to best distract himself from where his eyes wished to linger: Urianger, who took his sweet time in sitting at Thancred’s other side.

“You’re having fun,” Y’shtola accused him.

Thancred narrowed his eyes at her. Based on how the amusement grew in her expression, it was less intimidating than he’d hoped.

So he said, “What? Is that not the whole point of this festival?”

She raised one hand, palm out in surrender. “Fair enough. No need to get your hackles up. It was simply an observation.”

Thancred eyed her suspiciously.

Then he realized if she was there, and he was there, and Urianger and the Exarch were there-- who was watching the kids?

He craned his neck to look around the roof for them. They turned out to be very easy to spot, as they were engaged in yet another game with Hythlodaeus’ friends. While Thancred hadn’t been looking, they’d made a fake, miniature river that ran across clear plastic tubes from one end of the roof to the other. The top of the tubes were removed. The game seemed to be a race: two persons set loose paper boats with plain candles at one end, to much cheering and encouragement from the rest of the crowd. It would have been straight-forward, except the tubes twisted and turned and went every-which-way, with Hythlodaeus himself in the center of the racetrack and redirecting the tubes on a whim (especially if one boat drew ahead of the other), and so the boats struggled indeed to make their voyage.

Alphinaud was one of the main two contestants when Thancred looked over. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, but if Thancred’s ears were to be trusted, he was also insisting on following previously-established rules upon Hythlodaeus’ conduct.

Based on the laughter to follow when Hythlodaeus redirected a tube into a waterfall with a flick of his hand and Alphinaud’s laugh-filled protest, Hythlodaeus did not care for these rules.

“They’re fine. I promise.”

Thancred blinked back to the present.

He looked sharply to Y’shtola. Caught-out, that was what he felt. A bit embarrassed. 

She raised a single eyebrow back, then pointedly looked away and took a sip of her drink. It was the same fruity beverage he’d indulged in, he noticed. Maybe she could be persuaded to share once he finished his Urianger-mandated water.

“The differences between Amaurot and Diateichisma are… stark,” the Exarch said, quietly.

Thancred eyed him critically, pondering slowly the positives and negatives to reminding him that this festival was for _fun._

Urianger, _traitor_ he was, said, “I must concur.”

“Or maybe it’s simply that Hythlodaeus keeps better company,” Y’shtola said evenly.

Thancred snorted.

“Yes?” Y’shtola prompted him when he did not elaborate beyond that. “Use your words, if you would.”

He didn’t think he had to. He jerked his gaze toward the corner farthest from the river-running game. It had no decent view of the river, nor food nor drink nor particular festivity. It had a potted plant and lone, dimly glowing electric lantern that both predated the evening’s gathering. So neglected, it attracted shadow.

Thancred would say Hythlodaeus kept good company, but Emet-Selch yet lurked at the edges. 

_Sulked_ , more like. As he had on the First, he had kept to the group’s outskirts throughout the night. For introductions between Scion and Amaurotine, he’d kept to the side and observed. The first round of games, he again kept to the side and observed. For the lantern-boats, he set himself to the side with a decent view and _observed._ Although his mask hid his eyes, Thancred was sure he observed everything with what was probably a bored, half-interested look. Thancred had found his awareness of Emet-Selch to wax and wane depending on how much of a distracting ruckus the others made versus how invested in his own drink he got.

At three drinks in and surrounded by his people, his interest in Emet-Selch hit an all-time low.

“Point taken,” Y’shtola acquiesced. Gracefully. “But from what we have observed, you must agree he does not fit with the rest. I wonder if he ever had?”

“He can likely hear us,” the Exarch said. In caution, warning, or something else. In pity, maybe, except that didn’t seem likely.

“I am unsure of that. He appears distracted,” Urianger said, “and has appeared so, all evening.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do either,” Thancred admitted, begrudgingly sympathetic in this cause alone, “if I were suddenly put in a world that didn’t know it was doomed.”

Capital-D Doomed, no less. 

As he’d feared, the thought was more sobering the second time around. He took a big gulp of water to distract himself. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as satisfying as his fruity drink.

“Surreal would not begin to cover the feeling,” Urianger murmured.

Perhaps sensing their impending sobriety over the matter, Y’shtola said, “A shame he cannot be reasoned with.”

Although she likely hadn’t intended it, her pity shined through.

 _A shame we can’t be allowed regret,_ Thancred thought, bitter in his own right. The Ascians had long proven compromise was not amongst their toolset. Ryne held out hope, but that was a sign of her strength and not necessarily her understanding.

“I’ll be right back.”

Thancred’s eyes jumped to the Exarch, who upon further inspection held no mug in his hand or the red flush of drink consumed. Peculiar, then, that he rose and headed for the shadowy corner that played host to Emet-Selch, and not first the beverage station.

“That was sudden,” Thancred noted aloud. “Did I miss one of you daring him to go over there?”

“He always has one eye on Emet-Selch.” Y’shtola’s ears twitched downward, then straightened back up. “It makes me wonder…”

“About when and how explosive it will be when they finally conclude their business?”

Y’shtola huffed a humorless laugh. “Not quite.”

“The business of--?” Urianger asked.

“For one, foiling the Exarch’s century-long plan and dragging him through hell. For two, the Calamity that set us all on this path. I’ve more I could cite, if you need them.”

“Ah, no. I was simply curious which ill in particular thy spoke of.”

“I couldn’t guess which ranks at the top of the Exarch’s list. I can barely work out a list of my own.”

“And yet…” Y’shtola hedged.

Thancred frowned at her, confused. “What? -- _Use your words_ , Y’shtola.”

She gave him a sardonic look. He gave her one of his sloppy smirks. 

She was more unaffected than Urianger had been. Was he slipping? Surely not.

She sighed, and shook her head. “Never mind. I am concerned the Exarch has more knowledge of Emet-Selch than he has shared with us.”

“If he does, he did not divulge as much with me,” Urianger said, “and what I have been told, I have divulged in its entirety to thee.”

Sensing a spiral into regret over yet another secret withheld and untold, Thancred nudged him with his elbow. As far as disastrous secrets for Urianger went, that one hadn’t ranked in the top three. Urianger shot him a semi-grateful look.

Y’shtola tipped her head in acknowledgement, but her thoughts clearly continued to occupy her mind. 

Thancred offered for her, “Do you mean during the latest kidnapping? Because I doubt he remembers much of anything, as he’d said. The Exarch wasn’t faking that concussion.”

“No, not that. He’d informed me tonight that he and Emet-Selch used to meet infrequently during his time on the First. Before our arrival.”

Thancred tensed.

“He had not mentioned that before,” Urianger allowed slowly, caution in his voice at allowing too much too fast. Although they all suffered the consequences from various Ascians paying various visits, Urianger had once been subject to infrequent but targeted visits by an Ascian. He knew well the danger that followed. “Did he speak of the visits’ nature?”

“They had been cordial visits, he said, and nothing more. Emet-Selch offered him aid, with the Tower and the Crystarium and the like, and he turned him down.”

“Oh.” Thancred un-locked his arms, and forced some of the tension from his shoulders. “An Ascian soliciting help to a new leader in a suffering nation? We’ve heard that one before. That the Exarch’s still here is testament to him not accepting.”

“I didn’t like the way he spoke of it, is all.”

“Fondly?”

“Wistful.”

Thancred waved a dismissive hand. “The Crystarium became his home, little as he likes to admit it. Of course he misses it, even in the context of its Ascian skulker.”

Her gaze stuck to where the Exarch had reached Emet-Selch. The two engaged in conversation too quiet to be heard from a distance, especially over the continued sounds of the festival below and around. There wasn’t gleaning anything from their postures alone, either. Damned robes.

After far too long (in Thancred’s opinion), Y’shtola finally blinked away from the duo. She turned her attention back to her drink. “In any case, at present, it matters not.”

Before they could continue onto brighter topics, a racing boat reached the end of the fake river. While they looked over at the commotion to follow, an Amaurotine hoisted Alphinaud -- much to his alarm -- into the air while the others clapped and cheered. From Thancred’s distant position, he saw only one boat on the track. The other, possibly, had caught fire from its own candle -- or divine, Hythlodaeus-led intervention -- and summarily capsized. Well, that was one way to end a race.

Ryne requested to be the next contestant loud enough for Thancred to hear. When Hythlodaeus oh-so-benevolently granted her the role, Creating for her a new and unblemished boat, Thancred took another big swig of his water, pushed the empty bottle at Urianger, and said, “Well, we’d best see what all the excitement is about,” and headed that way. 

After a moment, Urianger followed.

“Thy countenance has certainly improved from earlier,” he said in a low tone as they went to join the group. “If I might inquire, what had maligned thee so?”

Of course he’d noticed. 

They all probably had, but they’d given him the space and time to process.

The honest answer, Lahabrea’s name, sprung to the tip of his tongue, but he bit it in half before it escaped. He’d tell Urianger in the morning who the orator atop the platform had been. Right then, right now, he did not want Lahabrea or his ghost sullying the night. 

“I’ll tell you later,” he promised. “Let’s enjoy ourselves for now.”

Urianger paused, as if to give him time to clarify or retract. When he didn’t, Urianger accepted his word smoothly and easily. “I shan’t argue with that.”

Thancred slung an arm around his back, and set his mind to doing what he said: enjoying the night. Under his arm, Urianger’s robes were silky and cool. Later that night, when he dropped the hand to settle idly on the elezen’s hip, a pleasant warmth suffused their every connected ilm.

Far before that late hour, Y’shtola yet lingered at the chairs behind them, watching and waiting for whatever she thought was happening between Emet-Selch and the Exarch to happen. Although Thancred did not in any way begrudge or blame her-- although he had his own long, lucid moments of agreeing with her sentiment-- he knew she hadn’t entirely forgiven the Exarch for pulling them so recklessly into the First. As the Exarch had proven himself allergic to direct solutions as well as open, communicative teamwork, it probably wasn’t a bad idea to keep an eye on him.

But the Exarch was on their side. Of that, Thancred had no doubt. 

If he wanted to talk with Emet-Selch, so be it. He likely suffered from the same misguided hopefulness that Ryne did. Thancred couldn’t begrudge that; not as he was, reliant on others to glimpse even a sliver of the same.

**. . .**

“Did you ever enjoy these parties?”

For a too-long-to-be-anything-but-intentional moment, Emet-Selch did not react to his arrival or his question. He continued his vigil at the rooftop’s edge, his elbows propped on the decorative iron railing and his expression seemingly neutral under the mask. To all appearances, he hadn’t heard the Scions’ conversation. Then again, even if he had, he likely didn’t care.

Investment in attempting conversation waning with each passing second, G’raha blew out a silent breath, mentally gave himself a _you tried_ pat on the back, and began to return to the others. 

Just before he turned all the way around, Emet-Selch replied.

“Most probably. I had been quite the socialite, in my own way.” He spoke slowly, although his tone lacked its usual bored drawl. “Where Lahabrea always excelled with entertaining crowds, I preferred a setting wherein one might actually make themselves heard. Something like this, for instance. Hythlodaeus and I spent our professional years frequenting very similar gatherings, time and again. He had a way of drawing people in, whereas I would convince them to listen to what we had to say.”

G’raha turned half-way back toward him. The maudlin mood Emet-Selch displayed both surprised him, and absolutely didn’t. A surprise because he had expected some sort of snarky reply; not, because what else did G’raha expect, approaching an individual who kept himself so separate in the midst of a celebration?

He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Finally, he settled on, “So, you haven’t the perfect memory you professed.”

Emet-Selch scoffed, low and derisive. “I never professed to have a perfect memory.”

G’raha folded his arms. “You implied it. Repeatedly. Especially when you disparaged ours.”

“What you read into my words was, and is, no concern of mine.” 

G’raha said nothing. 

Instead, he waited him out. It was a familiar, though surreal, tactic: one he’d used plenty of times during Emet-Selch’s impromptu visits to the Crystarrium, _before._ Before the betrayal that shouldn’t have been unexpected, and yet, somehow, was.

True to form, Emet-Selch did not enjoy his non-responsiveness. In other words, he broke after just a few moments.

“The years that have passed since I have stood in this very spot are beyond count. Beyond comprehension. Beyond,” his mouth twisted downward, the word spat, “ _reason._ It would be foolish to think my memory would match the reality one-to-one.”

“We all have moments of foolishness,” G’raha said, which was much more diplomatic than Emet-Selch probably deserved. “Some more than others, in ways grander than others.”

Emet-Selch craned his neck to moodily stare down at him. “Yes, yes. Very astute of you to observe, little Exarch, three weeks after our arrival. Speaking of foolishness, how fares your condition? So kind of the Tower to allow you a day’s outing without docking you its pound of flesh. Or will that be collected upon your return?”

G’raha bit his cheek, the red heat of embarrassment and irritation climbing up his neck. He refused to drop his eyes from Emet-Selch’s.

“Before we are too distracted by cheap, petty shots at one another,” he replied, keeping a tight lid on his annoyance, “there was a point to my approaching you.”

“And here I thought you were simply happy for an opportunity to needlessly goad me.”

“Thank you,” he forced out, “for helping me. Before. With Circe.”

Emet-Selch’s frown smoothed out. His mouth opened a sliver, then shut. 

After a beat, he asked, tone once more as neutral as it ever became, “It was a simple matter. You have recovered from the ordeal, then?”

“I have. Urianger’s healing worked quickly.” While the return to the Tower fixed whatever residual aches and pains (and Tower-imposed exhaustion) had been left.

“Good. As with your… _everything,_ I’m not entirely sure the effect the Tower’s influence has had on your soul. While I may be able to fetch you from the Lifestream as I had your friend, you could very well come out malformed, or, at the very least, without an arm.”

That wouldn’t be so bad. The crystal kept him up too late on most nights, in thought and conjecture and worry of where it would spread next upon his waking.

“If you’d allow me to examine you prior to your untimely death, however, the probability of corruption would drop drastically,” Emet-Selch went on to add.

G’raha didn’t give him even the space to dream. “The only way I imagine you will be able to do so, is upon my death.”

Emet-Selch shook his head, turning his whole body so that he leaned back against the railing and faced G’raha properly. Despite that, his tone was highly nonchalant, borderline dismissive. “Very well. As I expected.” Then, “How did that fire start? I don’t imagine spontaneous combustion of her hide-out was, in fact, in her plan.”

To stall, G’raha cleared his throat. Even to someone like Emet-Selch, he didn’t feel good about what he had to admit.

“The fire was… my fault. Technically.”

“-- To what purpose?” 

Oh, sure, _now_ he was interested.

“It may surprise you, but I do not respond well to being suddenly relocated against my will.”

“Then how fortunate the environment you chose to wander through in the Tempest had already been on fire, if arson is your immediate impulse.”

G’raha gave him a flat look. “Really? You’ve had eons to perfect your sense of humor, and yet, the result is lacking.”

Emet-Selch snorted. “I do believe that is a fault in the audience, not I.”

G’raha ground his teeth, foot tapping twice in renewed annoyance. _Pompous ass!_

Right then would be a fine time to address the previous time Emet-Selch had ‘helped him out.’ Yet, even as G’raha rummaged through his tangled thoughts on the matter to draw out a starter for _that_ conversation, the jubilation in the streets below and the happy chatter from the party-goers in their immediate vicinity scattered his desire to venture into such a topic. 

Before he found the right words, Emet-Selch said, voice far too casual, “It’s peculiar. Nowhere in my memory existed an individual such as Circe.”

It was G’raha’s turn to frown. He dropped his arms to his sides, his annoyance eking out under confused curiosity, and tilted his head. “What do you mean? A kidnapper? Because-- I must say, that’s hypocritical, even for you.”

Emet-Selch tsked. “She considered you to be little more than a fascinating animal. Does one kidnap another’s pet?”

The annoyance returned. G’raha’s ear flicked. “Animal is a far step up from ‘not alive at all.’” 

“An elevation in rank born from limited exposure on her part, I assure you.”

“As I assure you, let us continue to focus on _Circe_ , lest you’d rather this conversation be done.”

Regardless of his feelings on the matter, Emet-Selch nodded shallowly and thereafter duly continued with, “I’ve thought about the whole situation on and off, and I just can’t fathom her reasoning in taking you.”

“She wanted to use me as an entrance ticket to Amaurot.” What more was there to understand?

A light frown. “Its doors are hardly closed.”

 _Really?_ How blind could a person be?

… Except. 

G’raha had the strange feeling that Emet-Selch wasn’t being intentionally obtuse.

With that in mind, rather than rolling his eyes, G’raha asked honestly, “Then any who wish to live here may? Is the city truly that expansive, despite the river and mountains at its borders?”

“Any deserving--” Emet-Selch paused. Tapped a finger on the railing. Restarted. “Any who have reason to reside here, may. Yes. A fair number of the residential buildings have spatial expansion primed into their walls for that very reason. It allows them to house more than appearances would suggest.”

G’raha eyed him. Ignoring that last part (though the old scholar in him wanted to demand how in the world one did _that_ ), he said, “From what you observed of her, would you say she fit the bill?”

“No.” Immediately. More easily, too, compared to the stubborn rose-colored glasses G’raha expected him to wear. Along that same line of _surprising,_ Emet-Selch’s tone turned contemplative. “And that is what I mean. I seem to have misremembered the _range_ my people had been capable of.”

But he undoubtedly still thought them better than any mere mortal.

Unwilling to tread that familiar path this night, G’raha simply replied, “Well. Now you’ve remembered.”

“That I have.” His attention shifted to the group gathered at the other end of the roof. Engaged as they yet were with their boat game, they failed to notice. “My memory of those terrible final days, the ones I shared with you and yours, are and remain exacting. They are all but burned into my soul. Even beyond their inherently striking, memorable nature, I’ve spent my countless years turning over what we could have done differently.” 

His tone grew distant. Pensive. 

He continued with, “Yet when I reach for moments such as these -- festivities above a jubilant, thriving city; my friends, laughing; the simple enjoyment my people took in their kindest Creations -- I find them to be as sand: difficult to gather and hold, let alone fit to tell me which stone they once belonged to. Although it might mean little to you, I hadn’t noticed such gaps before. I am sure they lingered in my dreams, and yet, in my waking moments, it’s…”

When he trailed off, G’raha’s brow furrowed.

All at once, G’raha found he didn’t want to wait out Emet-Selch. He glanced between the Ascian in front of him and the Amaurotines playing at their game away from them, and prompted, “It’s what?”

Emet-Selch’s mouth thinned. 

The reflective mood passed. And just like that, the moment was lost.

“It’s irrelevant.” He tipped his head down again, his mask a cold, unchanging barrier between them. “The end of days arrive at Amaurot’s open doors in ten months, Exarch. Enjoyable as this reprieve has been, the time for festivities is long past.”

His gaze again traveled to where his fellow Amaurotines gathered, blissfully unaware of the destruction being discussed not ten yalms from them.

He spoke with the weight of resolution belied by resignation. It chilled G’raha to the bone. 

“I’ve turned over every possible stone, and the solution remains ever the same. Zodiark must be summoned before the river runs red with our ruin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy Thancred/Urianger and want a break for some pwp, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657519) is what those two got up to after the festivities. ;] Enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

Eris considered herself adept in a great many things. 

It wasn’t bragging to say she was because it was true. It also wasn’t bragging because she’d mastered absolutely no particular subject, and so found herself often outmatched in one-on-one competitions. Because she was a sore loser, she’d worked hard to figure out how to put her competent-across-the-board skills to the best use. As the overall result made her convenient to have around in most all circumstances, she’d found herself rising in the ranks through the age-old doctrine of _right place, right time._

Being offered the Fourteenth seat on the Convocation had been a pleasant surprise. Actually, it’d been like an amazing, incredible, awesome, _out of this world are you serious you better be serious!_ surprise that had made her _week._

Since her promotion to top Analyst for the development and quality assurance testing of concepts and constructs throughout Amaurot, she’d witnessed a lot of strange things. 

And yet…

The crystal tower situation topped even her weirdest experience as Fandaniel, Fourteenth Convocation member. 

_That’s sort of like a compliment. No, wait, it’s definitely a compliment! Or, it should be, if-- well-- ok, what was the weirdest, besides us? That will tell me if it was a compliment._

_What are you talking about? ... Cahsi. Are you rooting through her mind again? I thought we agreed we wouldn’t do that._

_I can’t help it that she thinks so loud!_

Eris folded her hands together and squeezed her fingers. 

Focus, Fandaniel. You’ve got this. You’re totally keeping it together. You will not react to the two little ghosts that pop in and out of existence on a moment’s notice. You will not engage until you understand. That has always been a good policy.

It _had_ always been a good policy, but it wasn’t really working under the present, absolutely absurd circumstances.

_Eris,_ the one that called herself Cahsi said after a moment, _Hey, you okay? I didn’t mean to root through your thoughts. It’s just... We’re a little blended, aren’t we? It gets hard to separate what’s your thoughts and what’s mine, sometimes._

_We could go,_ the other, called Ardbert, offered. He likely spoke only to Cahsi, as he’d accepted Eris ignoring him much better than Cahsi. _Looks like she might need the space._

Eris really, really wanted to tell him that she was fine, thanks, as long as they’d stop _talking._ They just never stopped talking!

Typically, the unknown excited Eris. Exceedingly rare as it was, it meant a new challenge and an opportunity for growth. But _typically_ , the unknown meant the _unknown._ It didn’t mean something that felt like half of one’s own soul manifesting and talking with a sliver of the same. Although they visually appeared like shorter haired re-colors of Y’shtola and Thancred, their essence matched Eris’. 

The weirdest part was, Eris still felt whole. She’d thoroughly examined her own state after they’d manifested for the first time, and all tests came back fine. She didn’t suddenly have double the creative potential, or triple the thought patterns, or anything that indicated a mental or aetherial sickness. They were their own contained manifestations, complete with separate personalities and identities. They just couldn’t stray far from her, or comprehend the world past her awareness, or un-stick themselves from her in any way that mattered. Sometimes Cahsi read her thoughts, or mood, or intentions, and often, she wanted to discuss them. Ardbert, thin as a ghost of a ghost, could not, but he was remarkably astute and not afraid to speak his mind. Unfortunately, largely lacking anything else to set their attentions on and unless they’d disappeared to wherever they went when they unmanifested, their running commentary of her day-to-day life was never-ending.

It disturbed her more than she could say.

To better understand, she set up monitors to gauge their power levels and activities while she was in her office or apartment. The problem was, she couldn’t say a thing about them to anyone else, because _no one else noticed them._

How! It made no sense!

_Uh-oh_ , said Cahsi. _She’s spiraling again. Maybe you’re right. We should go._ A beat. _But Hythlodaeus is right around the corner! I think. It feels like how it always feels before we run into him, anyway._

_Huh… I still can’t tell, but I’ll take your word for it._

_I swear I sense Emet-Selch there, too. We should hear what they’re talking about._

_Eavesdrop, you mean?_ Ardbert replied, a mite amused.

_If all we can do is eavesdrop, it’s not a bad thing._

_Hey, I have no qualms about eavesdropping. I just remember a time you felt somewhat differently._

_Okay, yes, sure, but we aren’t poofing into Hythlodaeus’ bedroom while he’s getting ready for sleep, Ardbert. This is far less creepy._

_We’ve been over this! It was the only time we could safely talk._

_I rode around Lakeland while totally alone tons of times, and you never appeared!_

_What was I supposed to do, run alongside your chocobo while we chatted? Floating is far too much effort._

_Ugh, I now know that’s true… Which sucks. Ascians get to float around, why not us?_

It had the air of an argument that was both well-worn and good-natured. It made Eris feel a little queasy, because she’d heard the debate for the first time not two weeks ago, and it should not have felt so familiar. 

Just as Eris bled into Cahsi, Cahsi bled into Eris. That was an undeniable scientific fact. Other facts: Cahsi and Ardbert knew the other mortals. Cahsi was very attached to and protective of the mortals. Cahsi did not hate Emet-Selch, but she felt strongly about him, and the feelings were not very positive. She often wanted to punch him. She told Eris many times that Emet-Selch omitted a whole lot of things from his description of the future, including the intentional sacrifice of their people to a ‘primal’ known as Zodiark, but Eris needed more information before she knew who to believe about that. 

Cahsi liked to learn, and explore, and investigate, like Eris did. Ardbert was a quick study, like Eris. Unlike Eris, neither she nor Ardbert were capable of touching, influencing, manipulating, or even feeling the rest of the world, although they very clearly used to and very much wanted to again. That was another familiar discussion, although it teetered consistently between wistful, yearning, and desperate depending on the distractions available to them at the time. 

As far as facts went, it wasn’t much. Hardly enough to form a reliable hypothesis upon.

Uncertain though the whole situation was, over the month since the tower and her ghostly followers appeared, she’d learned a few things. For one: the most effective and sure-fire way to get the two to stop chattering about _her_ was to give them something else to discuss.

The whole reason she’d wandered away from her team’s lab in the top levels had to do with Emet-Selch, anyway. She’d begged off her team from following her because the information was-- well, it wasn’t good. In fact, it was pretty bad. 

Her program had finished de-tangling and identifying the aetherial signatures which brought the tower to Amaurot’s doorstep. She’d isolated, downloaded onto a personal thumb drive, and thereafter deleted the results from the shared database immediately. Her team knew her well enough not to ask, thankfully. They likely believed it was Convocation business that not even their non-disclosure agreements could be trusted with. 

That, and as it was only a few days after the festival, they were still operating on semi-vacation mode. She couldn’t blame them; usually, she’d be just as sluggish.

The results were Convocation business, to be fair. Her fellow Convocation members' impatience for answers had only increased with Emet-Selch’s uncharacteristic dismissiveness. Definitive identification of the tower’s origins would pacify their growing distrust. And, definitive identification was what she now had. One signature responsible for the tower’s appearance belonged to the tower itself, though it had been directed through the Exarch as electricity through a copper wire. That result, she’d expected since day one. Not surprising in the least.

She hadn’t originally expected the other to belong to Emet-Selch, but after their conversation in Diateichisma, it also came as no great shock.

She’d promised him not to tell Elidibus outright about the time travel ( _time travel!_ her mind screamed, excited and mortified all at once because _entire universal laws would need to be reconsidered!_ ), but she wasn’t sure how she could hide her program’s results. 

In fact, she knew very well that she couldn’t, and moreover, that she wouldn’t. She’d pay Emet-Selch the courtesy of running them by him first, to give him adequate time to finally get his nutty story straight for the Convocation, but-- it was about time. His reasonings for not telling the Convocation grew thinner and thinner the longer she sat on them. To avert an apocalypse, Elidibus would move mountains with him. They all would!

No, Emet-Selch’s signature wasn’t necessarily the problem.

The problem was: _her_ signature. 

At least, half of it. 

Which matched the duplicate half of her following her with a merry bounce in her step, accurately guessing Eris was, indeed, leading them toward the two Amaurotines that Cahsi and Ardbert, somehow, also knew.

Distraught as she knew her mental state to be -- at the results locked securely away in a password-protected thumb drive she kept in her pocket and their messy implications; at the two pint-sized versions of her _soul_ behind her -- Eris did not dare reach her awareness out to let Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch know of her pending arrival. Instead, she kept her mind and soul focused inward in a tiny, tight ball, and let her feet carry her down the hall that led to the Ocular. 

Not Ocular. 

Foyer.

Definitely a foyer.

Eris reached the hallway’s end, and reached for the door to the foyer’s handle.

Before she pulled it open, voices filtered through the edges. Even without extending her senses, the hushed tones were clear flags for _sneaky! We are trying to be sneaky!_ \-- which was funny, as they were in the very public foyer. Although her team didn’t, the mortals constantly went in and out of that area. They really liked to use the main screen to observe the goings-on in and around the tower.

She deliberated whether she wanted to interrupt the voices or not. If it was Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch…

Without thinking twice about it, she pressed her ear to the door and amplified her auditory ability.

Oh, it was definitely Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch.

“... asked me for materials to fix the smoldering wreck in the basement. You wouldn’t happen to know about that, would you?”

“Not the particularities, no. Generally speaking, it aids in facilitating our travel through time and space.”

“I’d have thought you had a hand in building it. Does that mean you don’t really know how you traveled here?”

“I know as much as the next.”

“Huh.”

“Yes, it’s quite the miracle any of this arrived in one piece.”

“I think I’ll condition the materials on assurance that we are all made aware of how to best operate the machine. With that in mind, you’ll provide aid as well, won’t you.”

“That didn’t sound like a request…”

“Even if it was, would you refuse?”

A sigh. “No, no. I’d wanted to learn more about that particular construct for a while now.”

The machine? 

Ah. The ‘Tycoon.’ The records they’d recovered spoke about it, but the specifications and terminology had been such a mess as to basically be an incomprehensible foreign language. She’d passed the records off to the Speaker’s linguistics department, who had been overjoyed to have something other than word-crafting to dig into.

Eris noticed then that Cahsi had her ear pressed to the door, too. Ardbert hung back, his arms folded and an unimpressed, if entertained, look on his face. 

When Cahsi saw Eris looking, she gave her a bright, keen-eyed smile. Eris scarcely held back a huff, reminding herself that she was _not_ acknowledging these ghosts. 

For such secretive tones, Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch were hardly talking about anything too interesting. Eris wanted in on learning about the Tycoon, of course, and would tell them as much once she very naturally opened the door and looked surprised at finding them on the other side, and-- _hey! Not fair!_

She thought it very loudly, which was probably why Cahsi flinched back from where she’d phase-walked half through the closed door. Except then her grin just grew, and she gave Eris a cocky little wave before hopping the rest of the way into the foyer. Ardbert tailed her closely, though he seemed to do so out of vague curiosity and habit rather than overt enthusiasm. Eris, suddenly conflicted about joining them and revealing herself, froze up. 

The door remained closed. On the other side, Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch continued speaking, oblivious as to their new on-lookers.

“Who operated the machine to get you here, then?”

“The one best suited to answer that question in its entirety is, I believe, the Exarch.”

“Hm.”

“... ‘Hm?’”

“Yes. Hm!”

“I somehow find myself suspicious as to the meaning of your tone.”

“You could ask, and I’d happily share.”

“Did I say suspicious? I meant apprehensive. As they say, ignorance is bliss, and I would remain blissful in regards to your intentions.”

“I couldn’t help but notice you spent a great share of your time during Olethros speaking exclusively with him. Dare I even say, speaking candidly with him. That isn’t like you for just anyone.”

_Huh--?!_ Cahsi said, very loudly. _What was Emet-Selch doing alone with G’raha? Who thought that was a good idea?_

_Keep listening and you may find out,_ Ardbert teased. _Considering their tone, isn’t it obvious?_

_Eh? They sound normal to me._

The two who could answer her questions, of course, didn’t react.

“Out of the lot, he has a remarkably level head.”

“Hm,” Hythlodaeus said again, with emphasis.

“He’s well over thrice the age of the others, though he doesn’t look it. I’ve known him for the majority of his years. There were… hurt feelings before and upon our arrival here, but he decided to set those aside for the night. Thus, we spent the time catching up.”

“Hm-hm-hm!”

Eris caught Hythlodaeus’ implication, though she couldn’t decide if he meant it in the spirit of friendship or something else. Either option baffled her. Even if they were not concepts and had sharper and stronger minds and souls than expected, they were as passing travelers on a crowded road. A brief but fond memory, and little else. Some Amaurotines enjoyed such fleeting entanglements, but she did not think Emet-Selch to be one of them. 

Before Emet-Selch could argue or complain his way out of his corner, Hythlodaeus added, tone light, “Were the rest of us such terrible conversational partners? You hardly engaged with us after the initial pleasantries were finished.” 

“It was a fine party.” Emet-Selch replied immediately. “I was glad to be there.”

“Yes, yes, you’d said as much twice now. And before you get all huffy about your honesty and honor, I believe you. I’m not worried about my hosting skills.”

“As you shouldn’t be.”

“I’m worried about you, Hades.”

Emet-Selch, at last, sounded fully and utterly caught off-guard. “Excuse me?” 

“Your soul…” Hythlodaeus’ voice dropped lower. Eris hastily amplified her hearing even more to catch his words. “... like it’s been put through a blender. The gashes and gouges, they’re-- gaping. I can tell from here, and you won’t even allow me to see it all.”

“I’ve been alive longer than the oldest of our kin. If the unprecedented effect of time’s passage so offends your sensibilities--”

“That damage is more than time’s passage. It’s as if a great beast had you in its jaws, gave you a nice gnashing, and spat you upon some pointy rocks.” Hythlodaeus spoke with the steel forged in sincerity. “It’s very clear you need a medic. I can’t believe you let it get this bad.”

“There weren’t many who could see, let alone comprehend, the soul within me.” Uninterest overflowed from his words. Hells below, chewed up soul or not, Emet-Selch refused to lose his stubborn bent. “Whatever you are observing isn’t new. However gruesome it appears to you, I assure you, it doesn’t impact me in the least.”

“Hades--”

“You were looking into the terminus virus, were you not?” Emet-Selch pivoted so fast, Eris’ head spun. “Though I bade you to put it aside for now, I doubt you did. Did you find anything of note?”

“I’m serious, Hades, you need evaluation, if not outright medical attention—”

“I am as I have ever been.” 

Even in the worst and most heated debates amongst the Convocation, Emet-Selch had never used such a tone. Even if he had, she’d never fathomed to hear it directed at Hythlodaeus. As velvet around a clenched fist, it was a dark promise of pain if pushed. 

Eris’ breath caught in her throat. 

“I understand you are trying to help in the way you believe to be best,” Emet-Selch continued, voice gentling as he went, “but I am fine. I appreciate your kindness, my friend, and always will, but it is better directed elsewhere.”

She hadn’t seen Emet-Selch’s soul. They were hardly on a true-name basis. But from what she heard, from the way Emet-Selch spoke to his closest friend with his tone one step from patronizing because that friend dared to care about his welfare, she knew Hythlodaeus to be right. Whatever change afflicted Emet-Selch’s soul, he was in dire need of attention. He shouldn’t have been on the Convocation if he was laboring under such difficulties. At the very least, he needed a break until they could find a way to stabilize him.

Possibly struck silent by similar thoughts, Hythlodaeus kept quiet.

“Point in fact, we have more pressing matters to focus on. There is,” Emet-Selch paused as if to take a calming inhale, his voice steadying despite the topic, “a mere ten months before the Doom will reach Amaurot.”

“Ten months?” Hythlodaeus repeated weakly.

Emboldened by a better understanding of this new (except he wasn’t, was he? If Cahsi was to be believed, this was simply him _now_ ), different Emet-Selch than Eris, Cahsi did not freeze. She barely even paused, hardly even let Emet-Selch finish his latest reveal -- which felt an awful lot like an intentional distraction rather than the sharing of very pertinent information! -- before she snarled, _Honestly?! Emet-Selch, this is why your plan to save this place won’t work! You need to actually listen to people and learn how to change!_

_It’s all he knows. Now, wow, ten months,_ Ardbert echoed, weak in his own exhausted way. _He really buried the lead on that one._

Then, Ardbert called through the door, _Eris?_ Rare as he was to acknowledge her directly, kind as he was to pay her the same intentional ignorance as she did him, she felt her attention immediately drawn to him. _You should be a part of this conversation, if you can._

_Since some of us can’t, you mean!_ Cahsi fumed.

Well. 

He wasn’t wrong.

Eris finally opened the door.

Hythlodaeus jumped as if she’d caught him hoarding jars upon jars of missing cookies. Emet-Selch’s head snapped in her direction, a frown immediately dominating his expression.

She didn’t let a second pass between her arrival and what she had to say. If she did, she knew she might lose her nerve-- or, worse, have Emet-Selch distract her. He seemed so fond of doing that with everyone else lately.

“Right,” she declared, stepping into the Ocular and waving the door closed behind her, “I heard-- ten months? Really? No more games, Emet-Selch. We’re going to the Convocation.”

_Uh,_ said Cahsi as she took a physical step back from where she stood next to Hythlodaeus, _wait, that’s not what we should do at all. The Convocation will just want to bring back Zodiark._

_You don’t want Zodiark,_ Ardbert said, standing on Hythlodaeus’ other side, _trust us._

“Fantastic. Just how long were you eavesdropping?” Emet-Selch asked back, his tone infuriatingly calm. Eris tore her eyes back to him from Cahsi. “Not as long as you planned to be?”

_Ask him about tempering,_ Cahsi implored. _Please. We’ve told you before, but-- you’ll realize how horrible Zodiark is once you hear him talk about it._

_You resisted the idea of Zodiark in the first go-around, but by then it was too late for your people to think of an alternative. It shouldn’t be too late this time._

Hythlodaeus said, in the real world between real people, “Emet-Selch, she’s right. We’ve kept this secret for too long as it is.”

Emet-Selch tsked, his mouth twisting even further downward.

“The Convocation will be able to help,” Hythlodaeus continued. “I found… I’m not sure what I found. There has been three odd reports of unsolved medical issues afflicting Amaurotines without warning in the last year.”

“If they’re anything, they’re mere preludes to the horrors that await us.” Emet-Selch paused. “What did they mention?”

“One count of a citizen perishing after a minor tear to the Rift appeared in her workshop--”

Immediately: “That’s unfortunate, but for our purposes, nothing.”

“Another about an unknown creature in the sea which infected a research vessel with--”

“Also nothing.”

Hythlodaeus put a hand on his hip. “Let me finish before passing your all-knowing judgment, at least.”

“I’m saving us time.” Emet-Selch tipped his head in Eris’ direction. “As we will need to do if we bring this to the Convocation and their need for endless paperwork.”

_He never thought the Convocation was inefficient before,_ Cahsi muttered. _I still don’t get why that matters to him now._

Ardbert agreed. _It’s more like he doesn’t want them involved at all._

Their commentary was incredibly distracting from an already overwhelming conversation. Eris felt a headache coming on.

“The last,” Hythlodaeus went on, an ounce of irritation creeping into his usually-friendly voice, “was an individual who claimed to hear a scream before she lost control of her magics and found her simple spell warped into a writhing mass that needed to be manually removed…”

He trailed off.

Once she realized he had, Eris blinked.

Cahsi and Ardbert exchanged glances, then looked up to him with a wary shadow between their furrowed brows.

“Is that one more than ‘nothing?’” Hythlodaeus asked. Unlike most, he did not sound excited over the prospect of being right. 

“That one is far more than nothing.” Emet-Selch allowed. He no longer frowned or sneered. Outwardly, he kept his calm. Inwardly, his aura -- easily detected once Eris cracked open her own shields and spread her awareness to join the other two’s -- shivered with the tension of a frightened, cornered snake. “Very well. It’s about time we speak with the Convocation.”

Relief mixing with exasperation and growing apprehension, Hythlodaeus looked ready to throw up his hands. Somehow, all he said was, “Alright. I’ll let Elidibus know we have emergency news for him. Better me than the two of you; I imagine you’re both already in hot water with the tower’s persistent presence.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” Emet-Selch replied, patently unconcerned about Elidibus’ ire.

“Plus, I want to be included in the discussion. You can’t use Convocation privilege against me this late in the game.” 

“Elidibus will live, even if he must meditate between a fifteenth voice.”

“He’s quite talented that way, yes.”

When the two looked at her for her opinion, she nodded mutely. Going to the Convocation was what she’d said they needed to do from the start.

So where did the intense, looming dread come from?

_... Oh boy._ Cahsi, who Eris refused to look at, whispered. It felt like she said it directly into her ear, but she lingered yet by Hythlodaeus. _Okay. So, plans are speeding up. But still, Eris, please: when he brings up Zodiark, you have to ask about tempering. Promise?_

Eris did, in the safety of her own mind.

By Cahsi’s fretful ramblings all the way to the Capital and Elidibus’ personal office, she couldn’t tell. Or maybe she could, and tempering was just that bad. Ardbert’s corresponding silence or one- to two-word answers certainly wasn’t encouraging, either.

Surely this Zodiark couldn’t be _that_ bad.

**. . .**

Zodiark was indeed that bad.

Elidibus listened to Emet-Selch’s tale of time travel from a future ruined with near-extinction. He accepted the results Fandaniel procured regarding the tower’s driving forces: the Exarch, Emet-Selch and Fandaniel. One without and two with knowledge of the future. Emet-Selch maintained ignorance on how exactly the tower did what it did, and told Elidibus that the Exarch likely didn’t, either, because the Exarch would not have intentionally allowed the travel to occur for obvious, _if the timeline diverges, his world ceases its existence_ reasons. Emet-Selch murmured a vague reason for Fandaniel’s involvement that made no sense, but which he failed to elaborate upon. Lacking the ability to understand that piece of the puzzle any better, Elidibus further considered Emet-Selch’s descriptions of the impending Doom in light of the medical report Hythlodaeus found.

Elidibus took their news with the poised dignity expected of his office, and then asked, quite simply: what had they done to survive at all, the first time around?

And so Emet-Selch informed them of Zodiark.

A primal with the strength to reverse entropic universal laws. Zodiark required great sacrifice for his great power. Originally, half their people gave their lives to halt their world’s destruction. It was a testament to the professionalism demanded in Elidibus’ office, even amongst friends, that they took no longer than necessary to process the enormity of _that._

Emet-Selch posited that with their additional time before the Doom struck Amaurot -- not much, but more -- it was conceivable that they could find another power source.

_Or an alternative,_ Elidibus said.

_Perhaps_ , Emet-Selch allowed. _But I would not waste too much precious time on it._

Elidibus didn’t have anything to rebut that. Later, in the many discussions to follow, he would. At that moment, he simply accepted it.

A discrete meeting was set within the hour for the entirety of the Convocation. Hythlodaeus was told to remain available, but was released-- which, despite his earlier protests on that very matter, Hythlodaeus took without complaint. The whole of Emet-Selch’s story was a lot to take in. As Cahsi had warned Fandaniel: much had been left out. The full weight was… staggering, when wholly realized.

True to her silent promise, Fandaniel took Emet-Selch aside in the hour before the meeting and asked him what tempering entailed. He’d mentioned it when he’d brought up Zodiark, but hadn’t gone into detail in front of Elidibus. That made sense on its face: why explain every detail when it would need to be rehashed once everyone had gathered?

Having little to do other than twiddle their thumbs while they waited, Emet-Selch considered her question in silence for three too-long seconds before explaining. 

First and foremost, his nonchalant attitude stuck out as grotesque.

Second and worst, his descriptions left her cold.

They matched Cahsi’s, except his actions proved what she’d warned about: single-minded devotion, unfaltering and unquestioning dedication, borderline obsession.

Officially struck with a raging headache that refused to be erased with a simple esuna, Fandaniel didn’t argue with him just then. Later she would, during the Convocation’s many, many discussions about the Zodiark plan. At every turn, he had a rebuff for her, almost as if he expected her disparagement. 

No matter how reasonable he tried to make it seem, she could not shake her first impression of just how terrible a mistake Zodiark would be. 

Privately, later, she brought up to Elidibus that Emet-Selch sorely needed a fitness evaluation. Not for his true claims about time traveling, but for the many ignored health concerns that clearly had collected over his overabundance of years. Elidibus agreed, and revealed to her that he’d reviewed the report from Odysseus which indicated that Emet-Selch had appeared to Circe in a concerningly strange, exceedingly small form, and had used what all agreed to be excessive force in subduing her. Fandaniel pretended -- ineffectively, based on Elidibus’ small sigh -- that surprised her. 

But though he agreed regarding the need, he could not grant Emet-Selch the leave. That they couldn’t possibly lose a Convocation member if this Doom was to be rebuffed and contained as it _should_ have been the first time around. Especially not the singular Convocation member who had a perfect memory of the to-be Final Days.

Was his memory perfect? 

She wondered. Sadly, there was no one else to ask.

No other Amaurotine, at least.

The night after the Convocation’s emergency meeting, Fandaniel carefully ensured she was entirely alone in her locked and warded apartment. Once she had, she took a deep breath, and turned to where Cahsi and Ardbert stood shoulder-to-shoulder by the window. White light outlined their semi-transparent forms against the city’s night-darkened skyline. They’d kept quiet through most of the meeting, only to begin discussing something or other between themselves in hushed voices all the way back home. Now, they again fell silent, though Fandaniel thought she saw nervousness and barely-contained despair both in the bow of their backs.

Taking another deep breath and steeling herself for losing a competition none of them had agreed to play, she announced aloud: “Alright. That’s it.”

Cahsi and Ardbert’s backs straightened immediately. Simultaneously, they both looked over their shoulder at her.

The image was a little amusing. After such a fraught day, Fandaniel felt laughter bubble up her chest, and hastily shoved it back down.

She made her way to her kitchen, and grabbed herself a bottle of wine she’d saved for very, very special occasions.

Once she had that safety net in hand, she turned again toward them and met their curious gazes head-on. 

“Start from the top,” she demanded, trying to sound as fierce as she wished she felt, “when you arrived in Emet-Selch’s… recreation of Amaurot. I had been trying really hard not to listen before.”

Their eyes lit up at not just finally being acknowledged, but being asked to _help._

Needless to say: Eris did not get much sleep that night. 

She also definitely finished her entire bottle of wine, and had to fetch a second.

**. . .**

After his prompt recusal from the Convocation hall, Hythlodaeus returned to where he was second-most needed. 

He wished to be with Hades. That was his foremost place of need, especially after Hades finally, _finally_ , came clean about their impending situation. Elidibus and Fandaniel had kept up their professional fronts in the face of Hades’ news without a flinch. Hythlodaeus had barely stopped himself from demanding they all take a five-day recess to process, as nothing less would be appropriate. And in that five days, Hades would be admitted to an in-patient facility for full evaluation and treatment. 

But they didn’t have the time.

That was what Elidibus would say, and he wouldn’t be wrong. They _didn’t_ have the time.

They shouldn’t have the extra time they did.

Over the past month, Hythlodaeus had come to know the Scions. Not _well_ , as they were suspicious of him, and he was no arrogant fool to believe he had even a dream of knowing them decently within a month. Their creative potential fell far short of even a child, yes; their souls were fragile, tiny things, akin to shards of the common Amaurotine, yes; their understanding of the world around them, woefully limited, _yes._

It didn’t matter. They’d spoken of their home. They engaged with one another as any other. 

They lived, they breathed, they existed. 

If Amaurot averted its course of destruction… They would not. 

No life outweighed another-- this, Hythlodaeus had long accepted. It was a basic tenant of their civil code: no matter the staggering ability a being possessed, no matter intellect or strength or even a combination thereof, the right to and value of a life was equal. Value was intrinsic to one’s very existence.

They could not take away eons upon eons of lives for the singular sake of their people. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t _right._

And so he left the Convocation without protest, and went to the tower.

Therein, he found the Exarch in one of the side rooms to the Ocular. Alphinaud and Urianger accompanied him. They were drawing up a list of high-priority materials for him to fetch for the machine in the basement. He took one look at the list, and told them to triple their demands, as he would need no time at all to Create what they requested.

Something in his reply tipped them off to his turbulent mood, as Alphinaud took the paper back and set it, slowly, upon their work table. Urianger regarded him critically. 

The Exarch asked, “Has something changed?”

Hythlodaeus rubbed at the bridge of his nose under his mask. 

He returned, “May I take a seat?” 

As all three murmured assent, he summoned himself his favorite chair from his apartment -- it was a simple teleportation spell, though it made them jump, which in turn made him smile somewhat -- and fell upon it heavily. The tower’s yet-foggy aetherial channels swirled up at even the smallest spell. A headache encroached upon the edges of his mind as his thoughts snagged on the problem summoning materials for Alexander would pose if the tower continued to run interference. 

That was a problem to be solved. 

_Ten months._

The Convocation would do their best to help Amaurot. It was their civic responsibility to place their people first.

Just as it was Hythlodaeus’ moral responsibility to make sure these Scions and Hades returned to their proper time.

If he thought too much about what he was doing, he would scare himself out of it.

So, he didn’t. The only allowance he gave himself was to ask them, “This Alexander, once repaired, will return you to your time. Correct?”

They hadn’t told him as much directly, but they didn’t dispute it. They nodded.

“We must ensure that happens as soon as possible,” he said, “as the Convocation plans to divert the Doom before it begins. If that were to pass, then your worlds will cease to be, and indeed, never be. Correct?”

They nodded again, though their expressions grew more cautious. 

He looked at each of them in turn. Scrutinized each.

_An immortal civilization for a mortal one._

They’d covered the worth of a mortal life in his basic philosophy class during his time at Akadaemia Anyder. Great minds differed on if a mortal’s soul remained upon death equal to an immortal’s, especially considering the pure size and power differentials between each. However, most agreed that because a mortal and immortal being both retained a comparable unity between body, mind and soul during life, both sets of beings deserved equal respect and dignity. As Hythlodaeus’ professor never tired of saying: in life, an immortal could not be differentiated from a mortal in any way that truly mattered.

Great minds differed on that topic too, probably. He’d admittedly only taken the one philosophy class. 

It’d made enough sense that he hadn’t felt the need to challenge the notion. Then again, it hadn’t been pertinent to his life since he’d written the class’s final paper — arguing for it, of course, because it made enough sense, and it’d been the easiest way to guarantee a top grade. 

He’d be thinking about it a lot in the coming months.

No reason to get a head start on the doubt. And so he said, intent on binding himself to his path, “Then we will need to return you to your proper time as soon as possible.” 

They still regarded him with open worry. They were not used to an immortal being on their side, probably; Emet-Selch, by telling the Convocation of Zodiark, clearly had chosen his place with Amaurot. Hythlodaeus could not blame him. He could not fathom how lonely an eon would make an individual for his first home, his first friends, his first life. Saying as much would only exacerbate their worry, and so he kept it to himself.

Instead, he gave them the smallest smile. 

Their alarm and suspicion grew. 

He sighed, but kept his smile.

“In exchange for my help, I have only one request.”

Some of the tension left Urianger and the Exarch. 

The implication that they led lives of strict give-and-take such as they relaxed after receiving a condition subsequent, greatly increased Hythlodaeus’ headache. It twisted his stomach into knots, too, which was a peculiar physiological response to stress that he hadn’t experienced since noon when Hades told him _ten months_ , but before that, in months.

Alphinaud, at least, was too young for it.

Perhaps short lives had their perks.

“What wouldst that be?” Urianger asked.

“When you return to your time, don’t give up on Emet-Selch. I dare not speak to what he has experienced through the years, but I would not have him left alone.”

The three of them exchanged quick, furtive glances.

Hythlodaeus felt his smile go lopsided, one edge quirking higher than the other in overt self-awareness at the enormity of what he requested. “He’s always been ornery and difficult, and I imagine that hasn’t gotten better with time. In fact, it’s clear he’s changed a great deal, and mostly for the worse. But he’s also...” 

One of the best of them? A good person at heart? No, those weren’t the real reasons. 

The real reason was: every life was equal, but still, “He’s also my closest friend. Take care of him.”

“We can’t promise what he’ll decide to do once we leave here,” the Exarch said, cautiously. 

Hythlodaeus huffed a humorless laugh. Wasn’t that the truth about Hades, always? “What he decides for himself is his own business.” Yet, he couldn’t help but press, “I merely request you don’t run for the hills at your soonest opportunity.”

Slowly, the Exarch nodded. “Yes. We can promise that.”

Hythlodaeus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His stomach persisted in its anxious sinking until it rested squarely between his feet, but his headache lightened as his smile became more real.

“One life for an entire people,” Alphinaud said, his voice tight. “Is that really worth it?”

“I exchange nothing but what has already, in the natural course of things, been given.” Another huffed laugh, with a bit more humor. “Really, I’m getting the better deal. From what I’ve heard, those final days were pretty gruesome. Now I can make sure to live my dreams before they show up. -- In between fixing your Alexander, of course.”

Alphinaud nodded. His face did a complicated thing where it didn’t seem to know whether to be relieved or in awe. It made Hythlodaeus feel a bit embarrassed just watching.

“We owe thee our immense gratitude,” Urianger said. “We shan’t waste thy efforts.”

“And we will do our best to uphold our end, in the end,” the Exarch added.

“That’s the best I can hope for,” he replied, kindly. “Speaking of, are any of you engineers? I can gather these materials without trouble, but I’m not exactly versed in machinery. I’d be guessing as much as the next person.”

They exchanged glances again.

The Exarch said, “We have… blueprints? And datapads. And, I watched some engineers build part of it, a while ago.”

Hythlodaeus waited.

…

…

“... _Oh._ ” He looked between them all. “You’re not joking. That’s… what you’ve got.”

The Exarch shrugged helplessly, his responding smile strained. 

Urianger and Alphinaud wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“Well. We’ve got, what, less than ten months?” Now the humor was back and darker than ever. He didn’t try to repress it. Being a moral, up-standing citizen was far too nerve-wracking to be picky over harmless outlets. “That’s plenty of time for us to learn some light, ah, time-bending engineering.”

Hells below, they were Doomed.


	9. Chapter 9

“Have you discovered where your precious Warrior of Light resides? A hint: you’ve already seen her.”

Emet-Selch’s abrupt arrival startled G’raha so badly, he smacked his head against the underside of Alexander’s arm casing.

A week had passed since Hythlodaeus began summoning materials to repair the Tycoon. In truth, he’d finished gathering the broad categories of materials within five days. Actually fitting them in their proper spots -- especially as they were forced to scrape the entirety of the original Tycoon -- fetching the tiny nuts and bolts that they hadn’t realized were necessary from the blueprints, _and_ making sure it continued to resemble what it was supposed to in hopes that it would perform as expected… That was taking much longer.

Hythlodaeus expected (as he was often pulled away by his work) at least three of them to be working on the machine throughout any given day. At that exact moment, however, G’raha was the only one in Tycoon’s bay.

Emet-Selch must have factored that into his chosen time to make his grand reappearance, but _how_ he’d been monitoring them wasn’t something G’raha wanted to think too much about. Whether intentional or not, Fandaniel, her team, and Emet-Selch’s absences had allowed them to focus whole-heartedly on reconstructing their ticket home. Alphinaud commented that it was almost like they were all back at the Studium, working over problems they only half-understood even though they had all the knowledge at their fingertips, except the consequences were a bit more dire if they missed the deadline. As G’raha had long been out of that particular academic game (and he had not much enjoyed it when he had been in it), the comparison left him unexpectedly queasy. 

“What was that about the Warrior of Light?” G’raha bit out, rubbing the back of his head as he backed himself, carefully, out of the gutted beginnings of what would be Alexander’s right cuff. “And _hello_ , by the way.”

“Yes, yes. Hello again.” 

Emet-Selch had one hand on his hip and the other at his chin, his eyes roving over their piles upon piles of collected materials surrounding the skeletal framework that would, hopefully, become Alexander. G’raha was slightly surprised to find him in his Garlean form, but also slightly relieved: maskless once more, Emet-Selch’s face gave away his every passing thought. Even if his expressiveness was borne less out of intended honesty and more out of lazy indifference, G’raha far preferred it to his Amaurotine guise. Although, _why_ he chose to arrive in that form was… possibly concerning. 

Especially in conjunction with news about Cahsi.

If it was bad news about Cahsi, Emet-Selch wouldn’t tell him promptly or directly. Taunt them, yes; lord it over them, absolutely. But acting as the chief bearer of bad news? G’raha knew Emet-Selch’s ideas of _fun_ well enough to recognize he’d find no joy in dragging out a grisly update.

As G’raha so snipped his rising anxiety at the root before it bloomed, Emet-Selch noted idly, “You’ve been busy.”

“As have you, I expect. Unless you simply grew bored of us all.”

“Not enough to stay away indefinitely, unfortunately. The Convocation has kept me tied up in plans, paperwork, aspirations...” By his slight smile, he did not consider the work a bad thing. By the sunken hollows of his eyes and pallor to his ever-pasty skin, his body did. “But even we require a break. And so, I thought to pay you all a visit. A check in, if you will, for how matters on your end are progressing.”

“I could fetch the others,” G’raha offered, deadpan. Emet-Selch would say no. If he’d wanted to be seen by the others, he would’ve arrived ten minutes prior to Y’shtola and Urianger leaving for food and caffeine. “Make it into a proper group conference. I’m sure they’d love to tell you all about what we’re currently doing.”

“Undoubtedly. They think I don’t know?”

“Do you?”

“Please. You’ve made no attempt to conceal the work from even the dullest youngling. Hythlodaeus likes to talk.”

But he didn’t like to talk that much, apparently, as Emet-Selch continued without mention or regard for Hythlodaeus’ promise.

G’raha quietly filed that happy fact away. He certainly didn’t want to be the one to let the Ascian in on it. Not until they were back on the First, at least. 

Emet-Selch started a slow circle around Alexander’s framework. 

“I never did manage a proper look at this contraption before it melted into a shiny, useless puddle.” Emet-Selch ran a gloved hand along the cuff’s smooth casing. “Your Tower’s wards are exceedingly loyal to your wishes about who is granted access to what, whether you intended it to be or not. Is there a reason you fashioned it after the half-hearted primal?”

G’raha folded his arms over his chest. Rather than his usual robes, which were prone to grease-streaks that refused to be washed out without much grief, he had on an old tabard and leggings. Both were musty, moth-eaten and ill-fitting, which made them perfect for digging through oil-slicked canisters and razor-sharp scrap metal. Still, it hadn’t been long since he’d started wearing his hood down around the Scions. The complete replacement of his usual robes with such normal clothing, his crystal arm on full display, made him feel like he was in a masquerade.

With Emet-Selch, he didn’t think as much about it. Though he’d grown used to his presence, he had enough presence of mind to recognize how far from normal the Ascian existed.

“Eventually full-hearted,” Emet-Selch muttered, disappeared now around the other side of the cuff’s casing, “against all odds. Little had I expected such success from a metal monstrosity of engineering…”

G’raha tapped his foot pointedly. 

“... Though last I saw of it, it had been deactivated and drowned in a lake… Poor place for a primal. It’s proven rather difficult to gather followers from amidst the muck.”

Although in Emet-Selch’s absence and his own stress-induced exhaustion he’d wondered, it turned out he didn’t actually miss Emet-Selch’s meandering manner. “You mentioned the Warrior of Light’s whereabouts?”

Emet-Selch peered at him from around a flat panel of sheet metal. 

Even before he spoke, G’raha was ready to smack him upside the head.

He said, “I did,” and G’raha huffed aloud.

“Coeurl got your tongue? That’d be a first.”

“I’m giving you the opportunity to guess.”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“The answer is closer than you’d think. With the right direction, I daresay you’d have it in no time.”

G’raha took a step closer to him, his shoulders tensing and one fist clenching.

Emet-Selch raised his hands, palms out, an infuriating smirk on his face.

“Easy, Exarch.” Before he could pop him in his nose for daring to condescend so openly, Emet-Selch continued. “When I said the answer was close, I was being literal. Your Hero has merged with Fandaniel.”

And just like that, G’raha’s thoughts ground to a halt.

He breathed without realizing he made a sound at all, “ _What?_ ”

“I thought it impossible. But evidently, one reason she possessed such remarkable strength among mortals was because she had a soul that had found more than a few of its matching shards.” His head tilted, his hands dropping to his side as he shrugged his way back into his customary slouch. “I’m not sure how I missed it both now and then. It’s fairly obvious in hindsight.”

“What does… I don’t understand.” His voice was small to his own ears. “She’s Fandaniel? Right now?”

Emet-Selch regarded him for a moment. Not to taunt; rather, an eerie parody of sympathy.

“To all appearances,” he said, “yes. In a sense, she’s been completely unsundered.”

G’raha needed to take a seat.

Or he needed to drive a sword through something fleshy and, preferably, evil. 

“But,” Emet-Selch started, speaking as if from far away while G’raha’s gaze focused somewhere over his shoulder. His mind tried unsuccessfully to restart behind the implications that the Warrior of Light had been a few steps removed from an Ascian. That she was here, that she’d been here, but she didn’t know any of them. That she’d be _left here_ if they left, and how would that work? Would she be gone forever? She’d been the last Lightwarden, _technically_ , and so the First would at least be safe from starting a Calamity on the Source, but-- but- no. 

No. 

She couldn’t be stuck here! 

They couldn’t just leave her!

Were they to remain behind as well? That wouldn’t do either. 

This changed everything.

This changed nothing.

It had to change everything, yet, it couldn’t change anything...

“Exarch.”

Pressure gripped his left shoulder. Encased as it was with crystal, he felt it as if through layers of wool: a light push, a distant buzz. 

He blinked, and struggled to refocus. Reminded himself, forcefully, that Emet-Selch was right before him, and. That mattered. He’d never let G’raha forget if he zoned out so badly he could not tell where he was.

He very much wished he could forget where he was.

The pressure on his shoulder tightened, then gave him a shake.

G’raha’s brow furrowed, his feet stumbling over each other as he narrowly kept his balance. It turned out a hand was on his shoulder, and that the hand, when G’raha followed it to its owner, belonged to Emet-Selch. A shadow had appeared between his brow, too, as he met and then searched G’raha’s gaze. His mouth had turned down in something too gentle at the edges to be a frown.

“I thought you’d be gladdened,” Emet-Selch said, his tone that of an unexpected admission. “Your Hero lives.”

“As an _Amaurotine._ ” G’raha forced every disgusted onze of _how did you ever think I’d be happy_ into his voice. It was enough to turn a desert into a sea, he thought. “Not as herself.”

“She is at her truest self. It’s an imp--”

“It’s no improvement!” G’raha swatted the hand off his shoulder. Emet-Selch let go with a startled blink, and took a step back. G’raha’s lip curled, and he took a step forward to keep within proper striking distance. “Go on! Say it is, and let our farce of a truce be at an end. I could do with a fight.”

Surprisingly, Emet-Selch did not take him up on that.

“Do you believe her lost, when I bring you news of her being found?” He shook his head. He continued to have the audacity to look baffled at G’raha’s anger. “Fandaniel must remember her days as the Warrior of Light.”

“She has made no mention--”

“Why would she? To awaken with memories of a life lived in an alien world and remember a long, long time wherein she not only forgot herself, but forgot all of Amaurot-- she would be insane not to think herself insane.” He narrowed his eyes at G’raha, his mouth twisting with displeasure that G’raha could not give two cares about. Soon, he gestured hastily up and down at his own form. “Did you not wonder why there were not two of me running around this fine city? My soul found its match, and combined our experiences and knowledge.”

Voice chewed up and unable to do anything about it, G’raha shot back, “That just makes it sound as if the Warrior I knew has been fully consumed by Fandaniel.”

“Not necessarily.” Emet-Selch’s face pinched. His tone grew impatient. “I stand before you whole, because I have always been whole. Complete merging was a natural outcome. But rare is a shard that perfectly matches its original shape. Shards that do not join in the nebulous comfort of the Lifestream need be carefully coaxed toward unity so as to not risk further damage in their Unsundering.” 

“Then, lacking that intentional manipulation… We remain separate.”

He nodded. “Your ragtag bunch remain as you do because your souls barely resemble, let alone remember, their original shapes; whatever Amaurotine you once were may have the vague feeling they are missing something, or that they’ve recently fallen under the weather, but their soul is hardly lessened for your lack. The same would not be true if you were closer to complete, as your Hero evidently was.”

That… still didn’t add up to a good thing.

But he wanted to understand. G’raha seized that impulse with both hands and wrenched it into place, burying his urge to either fight or cry deep underneath.

“So Cahsi Theia’s soul had been rejoined--”

“Unsundered.”

“-- Unsundered enough to find its match, but not merge completely?”

“I haven’t had the chance to fully examine her soul for any unexpected passengers,” and by his tone, the notion that he could was apparently ludicrous when it involved one of his precious kin, “but considering Fandaniel’s distant behavior toward you all, it’s more than likely.” 

G’raha dropped his gaze to the floor, his thoughts at last restarting. Progressing. 

If Cahsi’s soul retained its individuality, that didn’t solve the problem of pulling her along with them back to the First. 

It did mean she might be reached. 

Or did it? He didn’t know enough about this soul business. He never had. His guesswork with souls had started the whole problem with dragging Scions in without their bodies.

Emet-Selch again eyed him closely. “Now that you’ve calmed down, do you not find this news to be good?”

Jaw and fists clenching, G’raha’s tail lashed behind him. 

Emet-Selch sighed. “Apparently not.”

G’raha snapped his eyes up from the floor and narrowed them. “I want to talk to her.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“ _Emet-Selch--_ ”

“-- Do not be irate with me, Exarch. _I_ have no control over the Fourteenth, or any shards connected to her. That was proven before we even stepped foot here.”

G’raha’s mouth snapped shut with a click. His tail lashed again, once, twice. It had fluffed out, too, like he was a kitten losing his temper. Better anger than despair, at least in front of Emet-Selch. He still wanted a fight. It wasn’t a feeling he often had, but he thought it deserved in the present instance.

Emet-Selch’s mouth thinned as he took in G’raha’s stance.

As if offering an olive branch-- albeit one in a slow, dismissive tone-- he said, “What I might do is secure you an audience with Fandaniel. You can ask her yourself any questions you might have.”

That--

That could work.

But then G’raha wondered, “Why haven’t you asked her any questions? You must have a few, too.”

“It would be grossly improper of me to presume,” as if he didn’t presume about everything, all the time, “and, there’s the small matter that if she does have access to your Hero’s memories, I don’t see her being particularly fond of me.” 

Ah.

That was a good point, actually.

“She doesn’t have much reason to be open with me,” G’raha said, thinking both of his poorly executed betrayal atop Mt. Gulg and his lack of camaraderie with Fandaniel. Yet, “But compared to you…”

“Quite.” Deadpan.

Hm. 

Alright.

“When?” G’raha asked.

“Now?”

G’raha sputtered. “ _Now?_ ”

“We, the Convocation, have been granted four hours' reprieve before we’re expected back at the capital. There’s no telling when our next break will be.” Emet-Selch shrugged one shoulder. “If you have better things to attend to at the moment, I will collect you whenever that ends up being.”

By his unsubtle glance around at Alexander’s various scrap heaps and unfinished skeleton, he clearly didn’t see G’raha’s work as too important.

The implication grated, but compared to reaching the Warrior of Light…

“Alright.” He needed a moment to think. He needed to pass word to the Scions. He needed to not be in oil-stained rags. “Now. Fine. Allow me to change into something--”

Except Emet-Selch’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, effectively stopping him from leaving.

G’raha braced himself, his indignation rising hot and fast in his throat-- but then the portal was there, and the time to escape passed. Dark aether rose around their feet and enveloped them swiftly as a predator swallowing prone prey. He’d experienced the sensation while awake and fully aware never before. It turned out to be a far cry from the unremarkable teleportation between Aetherytes. Cold washed over him and robbed him of his breath. He found himself with an errant wish for unconsciousness as his every cell squeezed as though through a needle point and his crystallized flesh hummed with loss at the abrupt departure from the Tower. 

But then, just like that: they arrived.

They stood in the midst of a marbled hallway outside a tall, white door. The number IV adorned its topmost half in thin silver. At odds with the stateliness of the interior design was a worn welcome mat with two tabby kittens playing with a ball of green string, the words _you’re always purr-fectly welcome!_

To give himself something neutral and not nerve-wracking to focus on, G’raha stared at it. Unfortunately, it was so at odds with the rest of the area, it made the situation far more surreal.

Emet-Selch raised his hand to knock, then glanced down at him and… paused.

“Are you going to be sick?” He asked. “We just arrived.”

He yet assumed his familiar Garlean form. It was almost comforting, in a strange way. As long as he wasn’t too optimistic, he knew very well what to expect from Emet-Selch. If asked, he would likely abandon this venture and return them back to the Tower. Or, he would barge his way into Fandaniel’s apartment, and commandeer the entire interaction. Either way, the pressure to act first would be off G’raha.

Reflexively— not one to back down, not to him— G’raha shook his head. 

Emet-Selch tsked. He turned and again, his hands fell on G’raha’s shoulders. His nose scrunched with distaste. G’raha raised a hand to swat him away once more, discomforted by the other’s sudden grabbiness. Then Emet-Selch swept his hands down his arms as if brushing off dust, and under his magic-infused coaxing, G’raha’s tabard and leggings shifted into plain, clean black robes and far better-fitting leggings. A faint static accompanied the change, buzzing warmth everywhere the new clothing touched.

On a cursory glance, they fell in similar folds to his usual, but were far more simplified. The sleeves fell slightly below the tips of his fingers, and there was, when he checked, even a hood.

Emet-Selch had the gall to ask, “Better now?”

G’raha blew out an exasperated breath. _Yes_ , he did feel better, but it had been Emet-Selch’s hasty teleporting that caused the problem in the first place!

… Still.

Okay, it did make him feel better. If Cahsi really was in there, he didn’t want her to see him looking like a mecha-rat. He smoothed his hands down the robe’s front just to make sure they were as solid as they seemed, and took a deep breath. 

When he glanced one final time at Emet-Selch, he found an infuriating aura of smugness about him.

As his ego needed no stroking, G’raha turned pointedly to the door, raised a fist, did _not_ hesitate-- and knocked.

**. . .**

“This is terrible. This is actually terrible. Like, the worst plan, ever, in existence, right here, and I’m complicit.”

_Now that you mention it… Zodiark does compete pretty strongly for the worst plan ever in existence._

“Thanks, Cahsi. You’re really helping.”

_It’s not my fault if you make good points during your pity party._

“Yes, it is your fault! You don’t have to say they’re good points. You could lie to me to make me feel better.”

_You’d feel better if you went to sleep._

“I’m not going to sleep, Ardbert, I’ve got to… I’ve got to find a way out of this Zodiark nonsense. In a way that _doesn’t_ involve Hydaelyn. I won’t escape one disaster only to trigger the next.”

_Hydaelyn isn’t that bad… She doesn’t promote endless destruction and genocide-based sacrifice, at least._

“That _you_ know of, and no offense, but you don’t seem to know a whole lot about her machinations. Me, personally? I don’t trust any of these primal things.” 

Fandaniel ducked low as she dug through the bottom drawer of her desk. With the sole exception of the hooks by the door upon which she automatically hung her mask and outer Convocation robes, everything in her apartment was hopelessly disorganized. It hadn’t been much of an issue until she’d needed to organize a counter-plan. By her ruffling and under-the-breath muttering, the bottom drawer was unforthcoming with what she sought. Whatever it was. Ardbert didn’t know why she didn’t just Create herself whatever she needed. 

Her muffled voice rose from the drawer. “Hells, where is that blasted…? Ack, I’ve got such a headache and eye-ache and everything-ache... Maybe I do need sleep. This whole emergency session has been insane, and it’s only been a week! We can’t keep this up for ten months--Aha! There it is!”

Brandishing a thick blue binder in triumph, she hopped away from the desk-- and hip-checked her equally cluttered side-table, which sent a pile of books scattering to the floor. She winced at their clattering, but then glared at the resulting mess as if they’d personally chosen to take their tumble. In truth, the floor didn’t look any more or less cluttered than it had before they fell.

 _What’s so great about a folder?_ Cahsi asked. Ardbert wondered the same.

“This folder,” Fandaniel waved it in their direction, books quickly forgotten, “contains theories on the possibilities for inter-dimensional travel and, tangentially, rewriting universal laws. It had been a minor panel at a thermodynamics conference. I knew I’d kept the notes somewhere.”

 _It’s pretty slim,_ Ardbert noted.

Fandaniel squinted at him, then at the folder. After a moment, her shoulders slouched.

“Yes, er, well… Considering its radical nature, it wasn’t a popular topic. But, it’s a start!”

 _That it is!_ Cahsi repeated encouragingly, her energy jumping to meet Fandaniel’s.

Ardbert kept his opinion to himself. The Ascians had eons to pour over their civilization’s surviving works. Surely whatever some minor scholar theorized would have been covered?

Pointing out as much would open him up to endless teasing by Cahsi of being a big downer. While he usually didn’t mind her teasing, he was feeling a little worn thin. They’d been all but locked in the Convocation’s main conference room for the past week, with this four hour ‘break’ the first time they’d left for longer than it took to grab something overly caffeinated or sweet from the cafe at the capital’s first floor.

As he had little to contribute in the hefty matter of rewriting universal laws (and because Fandaniel’s stress plus her fellow Convocation members' constant presence meant she had returned to her habit of pretending they didn’t exist), he’d let himself drift by the second day. 

He hadn’t thought much of it. He’d done it plenty of times over his century-long haunting of the First. He’d even done it after Cahsi could see him.

Unfortunately, Cahsi hadn’t a century to get used to being unseen and unheard. When Ardbert consciously put his awareness back together by the beginning of the third day, she’d been frantic at his disappearance and demanded, on threat of ignoring him too, he warn her before he attempted such a thing again (with the clear implication that he had better not try to repeat it unless it was absolutely necessary, period). Startled by her vehemence, he’d agreed. He even did his best not to drift again while they were stuck in the capital room.

The thing was… Staying present all the time was its own special hell.

They couldn’t do anything to help or go more than three doors down from the conference room. They just had to stand there and listen as Emet-Selch walked his fellows step-by-step through his past mistakes. 

To add insult to injury, Ardbert barely understood half of the terms the Convocation threw around. Cahsi caught a bit more with her arcana background, but even then, she had to struggle to translate the words to concepts that made sense for them. Although her explaining the Convocation’s plans to him so that they both could follow their logic ate up some time, he’d never had much of a talent for magic. As Nyelbert and Lammit and now Cahsi quickly discovered, anything founded on _mana usage_ went in one ear and out the other.

Fandaniel took a seat at her somewhat-clear kitchen table. She put the blue folder to her left, a pad of note paper with a sleek black pen to her right, and her larger phone -- a tablet -- front and center.

 _What can we do to help?_ Cahsi asked her, having moved to hover at her elbow. 

She stood on her tip toes to peer at the blue folder. Fandaniel absently opened it so she could read the first page (or to remind herself to read the first page), her other hand tapping away at her tablet.

“Nothing at the moment. Sorry. Know you’re both, ah, frustrated. About that.” Her tone was extremely distracted. It took a few seconds before she realized the pitiful nature of her condolences and finally glanced up from her tablet to add, “-- Actually. Skim through this and let me know whenever you see the word ‘divergence’ in conjunction with ‘universe.’ Just say when you need me to turn the page.” She helpfully lowered the folder to the spare chair beside her, so they didn’t have to strain as much.

_Can do!_

Yeah, that was very doable. Ardbert wandered over as well, not caring if his feet phased through the fallen books on the floor. He thought about bringing up that they should really check in on the Scions, but Cahsi probably guessed -- as he had -- that Fandaniel wouldn’t be persuaded to ‘waste time’ speaking with mortals who knew nothing more than they did. She could be lowkey presumptuous like that. Inflated self-importance must have been in an immortal’s genetic predisposition.

Cahsi gave him a tight smile when he reached her side, and stepped over to let him lean in too. At such close proximity, a faint tingling washed over the arm closest to her. 

Instantly, the sensation was far too distracting for him to have a hope of reading the folder. He took an extra step to the side, and pretended he wouldn’t rather have thrown an arm over her shoulder. They’d discovered they were tangible to each other and Fandaniel some time ago, and Ardbert had definitely used it as an excuse to knock shoulders or stand too close, but his concentration was shot each time, and they needed to focus, or whatever, right now.

\-- Except as he tried to pull away, she already had an arm around his shoulders and tugged him back to her side.

 _Right._ She wasn’t used to not feeling anything for days on end.

He very much was. Something solid against his side, the faintest whisper of cloth texture and his stupid side-plating that he wouldn’t have worn on the day of his death if he knew he’d be stuck in it forever, the tingling sensation of two pure-aetherial-beings smoothing into once-simple touch, he could barely keep himself from staring at her like a goof and really, honestly, _Uh, you sure this is_ \--

She gave his foot a light, playful stomp, and patted his back. _It’s fine. Just hush, I want to read this._

Yeah, he could do that.

He tried to focus on the words too, but he wouldn’t with any confidence say he understood every word or that he was really, honestly trying. Rather, he slung his arm over Cahsi’s shoulders, too, and soaked up the glorious feeling of being able to _lean_.

Beside them, far from Ardbert’s concern, Fandaniel grumbled, “Oh, confound it. The media’s picking up on our absence… Not surprising, wish it was. Nosy reporters. You’d think they’d have something better to look into, like some, I don’t know, award-winning chili contest or-- eh?!”

The knock at the door startled all of them.

Fandaniel nearly flung her tablet across the kitchen. Ardbert reached instinctively for his axe, but did not draw it. Similarly, Cahsi had her hand on her spell book. 

Catching her tablet before it joined the books in falling, forgotten, to the floor, Fandaniel hastily dropped it upon the open blue folder and made her way for the door. She called as she neared, suspicion clear in her voice, “Yes? Who is it?”

“Emet-Selch.”

Though their hands dropped from their weapons, both Cahsi and Ardbert gained wary, confused frowns.

Heedless of them, Fandaniel reached the door and pulled it open with a surprised, “Hades? Has something happened? What are you doing knocking-- oh. What’s with the get-up? And, um, hi, Exarch.”

“Hello,” said the unmistakable voice of the Exarch. Cahsi never failed to call him G’raha instead, but Ardbert wasn’t sure he was on the same level of familiarity. Not that it really mattered.

“May we enter?” asked Emet-Selch.

“... Sure.” Fandaniel stepped aside, opening the door only wide enough to admit G’raha, his plain robes bearing a striking resemblance to the Amaurotine’s, and a Garlean-sized and shaped Emet-Selch. Once they were in, she shut the door behind them, flipped its lock, and immediately pressed herself back-first against it, eyeing Emet-Selch critically. “Do I need to set up wards? What’s going on?”

“We’re simply here to talk.” Emet-Selch took in Fandaniel’s messy apartment with a cursory, surprisingly non judgmental glance. His eyes, as always, passed right through Cahsi and Ardbert. “Unless you’ve managed to make new enemies within the last half hour, I would think the deadbolt is enough.”

“All we’ve done for the past week is _talk,_ ” Fandaniel sputtered. “Can’t I have four hours not to talk? -- No offense, Exarch, it’s just, ah, been a busy time--”

“He’s aware,” Emet-Selch interrupted.

“... Are all the Scions aware?” The Exarch nodded. Fandaniel let out a big sigh, throwing up her hands and tromping back to her kitchen table. “Figures! So much for secrecy. I’m assuming Hythlodaeus knows, too. That must be how the news caught wind.”

“The news caught wind because we’ve all been absent from our posts for a week,” Emet-Selch corrected, “without a statement as to why.”

Fandaniel shook her head, clearly more upset about the whole situation than the particularities of the media. She sat down heavily on her chair. “Okay. It doesn’t matter, we’ll do damage control later. There _will_ be a later. Why are you here, again?”

“How abrupt. What ever happened to pleasantries?”

Beneath the mask, Amaurotine eyes glowed faintly white and lacked both eyelids and pupils. Combined with their unnaturally smooth, greyish skin, their faces weren’t really the place to go to figure out their emotional state. Fortunately, Fandaniel tended toward overt, full-body expressiveness.

Elbow set on the table, she propped her chin in her hand and radiated pure irritation. 

After a drawn out moment, she grouched: “Hades. You dare interrupt _my_ four hours’ respite--”

“Does ‘Warrior of Light’ mean anything to you?” the Exarch asked. “Or Cahsi Theia?”

Fandaniel raised her head from her hand, her white eyes widening.

To her side, Cahsi perked up.

 _He’s figured it out?_ she blurted. _He’s finally figured it out! -- Eris, don’t you dare mess this up. Tell him I’m right here!_

They’d discussed doing just that. Unfortunately, the day they’d decided to contact the Scions was the same morning Elidibus decided the Convocation was due to be locked in a room until they figured out a solution to the encroaching apocalypse. As telling Y’shtola over the phone was strictly out by Cahsi’s request, Fandaniel had told them they’d need to wait. The Convocation came first.

She hadn’t thought of one of the mortals coming to them.

“It… might,” Fandaniel hedged. She ignored Cahsi’s dramatic groan and how she dragged her hands down her face. “Give me some context.”

The Exarch’s shoulders hunched up an ilm or two, though his expression remained impressively stoic. “Either you do or you don’t.”

Cahsi hopped in front of Fandaniel and waved her arms to force her attention.

 _Eris!_ she snapped. _Tell him! Or better yet, show him! I’m right here!_

Fandaniel’s attention snagged on her motions, but then obviously snapped back toward Emet-Selch.

“This is a question you too have, Hades?”

“Considering your signature registered as accomplice in the Tower’s transportation to this time and place,” he replied easily, “I began to wonder. Yes.”

Her mouth turned down lightly. “What do you mean?”

“The only merry mortal unaccounted for is Cahsi Theia, a Warrior of great renown in some part due to her extraordinary strength. Put like that, I’m disappointed I didn’t notice sooner her growing resemblance to her original self.”

 _Hythlodaeus had mentioned it odd that Emet-Selch didn’t notice us,_ Ardbert noted for Cahsi. When Fandaniel’s head tilted his way, betraying her interest in what he meant, he added, _Back in his fake Amaurot, I mean. Not the real Hythlodaeus, but… his shade._

 _That’s right,_ Cahsi murmured, calming down as Emet-Selch’s description caught her mind. _I’d forgotten. He’d spoken directly to you._

Emet-Selch’s eyes narrowed at Fandaniel.

The Exarch, on the other hand, would not be distracted. “Emet-Selch informed me that you may be aware about what came of her upon our arrival. If you do, no matter how little, I ask you share with us now.”

Fandaniel tapped her fingers against the tabletop. Stalling. Having the choice of revealing them on her own terms obviously hadn’t been what she wanted.

An inability to roll with the unexpected was also a genetic problem with immortals, Ardbert thought uncharitably. 

“Lately, you’ve seemed distracted more than usual,” Emet-Selch said, his voice laced with a demand she spill her secrets sooner than later, “as if you were listening to something. Or someone.”

 _Eris, please,_ Cahsi started again, her voice pleading. _G’raha doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just concerned about me._

Something in that sentiment must have been the last straw, as Fandaniel smacked her hand on the tabletop and scowled at Emet-Selch.

“That’s our Hades. Always have to be the most clever in the room.” Her lip curled. “Fine! Yes, I know Cahsi. And Ardbert. They haven’t left me alone for more than a half-day since that tower showed up. I’d thought…”

“You’d conjured them yourself?” Emet-Selch murmured.

“-- I don’t know. I haven’t a clue what I’d thought.” Fandaniel half-slumped against the table, her scowl lighting into something less angry and more exhausted. “But recently, I’ve been forced to acknowledge they’re here and, worse, they’re not going anywhere.”

“Here?” Emet-Selch and the Exarch asked at the same time.

Then, “Wait,” the Exarch added, blinking “who’s Ardbert?”

Cahsi threw Ardbert a sympathetic look.

Catching it, he shrugged. It figured. At least he didn’t know--

“The First’s Warrior of Light?”

_\-- There it is._

Ardbert waited for the derision to follow. The Exarch was a kind soul, but some things were inevitable. 

With the secret out, Fandaniel openly watched their exchange. She still wasn’t the best with understanding their expressions or tones, but she caught the gist. On her silent inquiry for confirmation about the Exarch’s question, Ardbert nodded. 

She answered, “... Yes.”

The Exarch rolled with it. “And they’re both here.”-- With more feeling, “They’re both _here._ Right now. In this room.”

“Yes? They’re, ah, right there, as a matter of fact. Cahsi and Ardbert, Warriors of Light extraordinaires.”

The Exarch searched where Fandaniel pointed and where they stood with a mix of scarcely contained excitement and overwhelming longing. It didn’t seem like an expression that was meant for Ardbert, and in fact, he was a bit unsure if he should even be seeing it.

“How long have they maintained forms separate from you?” Emet-Selch asked her.

“Since the tower, as I told you.”

“Then they’ve heard and seen everything you have.”

“And only such. They can’t seem to go very far. I imagine that has to do with our souls’ connection…”

The two Convocation members began in on the finer points of soul sundering, unsundering, and the implications of Fandaniel’s current split-soul state. Fandaniel maintained it was more an extrinsic expression of a world and life her soul rejected as reality, while Emet-Selch went in about duplication and redoublings. 

Within a sentence, Ardbert lost track of their conversation. He could have tried harder and understood, probably, but he was more distracted with how Cahsi approached the Exarch with a hand outreached. The Exarch, unable to perceive her even the smallest amount, searched the air around Fandaniel as if it held a trove of invisible and invaluable riches.

He asked, tone low as to not disturb their debating immortals, “Cahsi? I don’t presume to think you’d want to see me after what I did, but… If you are here. The Scions have been worried sick about you. I’d like to bring them good news.”

Cahsi reached his side and gave him a wide, sappy smile. _They’re worrywarts! And you are too, you ridiculous doof. ‘Course I wanted to see you. Really, I’m just happy you found me again._

Her words fell on deaf ears.

When the Exarch took a slow step forward, his jaw set and eyes hardened in determination to truly locate her, Cahsi extended a hand for his shoulder.

 _Cahsi_ , Ardbert warned then, sharp and hoping to save her the pain.

Too late. Her hand fell through his shoulder. She pulled it back as if burned, though surely she felt nothing. Gripping it with her other hand, she stared down at her palm, her ears trembling where they flattened on her skull.

 _Right,_ she whispered. _Right. Nothing’s actually… changed._

Ardbert watched her uncertainly.

After a moment, she looked over her shoulder at him and directed her lopsided smile at him.

_... But he found me anyway. That’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?_

_Definitely,_ he said, giving her a smile back. 

If hers was a bit watery, he didn’t point it out.

“Can-- isn’t there a way I could see them?”

Fandaniel and Emet-Selch quieted their debate about souls and joinings. 

Emet-Selch regarded the Exarch’s earnest face as if he knew not what to do with it. Fandaniel stared at him with a curious, slight furrow to her brow.

“... Possibly,” she said.

Cahsi’s eyes widened. Ardbert snapped his head in Fandaniel’s direction.

“Theoretically,” Fandaniel corrected. “At its root, whatever its cause, it’s still an expression of the soul. We both agree on that.”

“I suppose,” Emet-Selch said.

Fandaniel cleared her throat and graciously did not acknowledge his begrudging tone. “The concept behind amplifying one’s perception of another’s soul isn’t particularly complex. I’ve heard it used in some circles to enhance intimacy.”

The Exarch pulled back at that. “Er. What sort of intimacy?”

Emet-Selch made an unimpressed noise in the back of his throat. “His soul’s unlikely to survive a direct linking.”

“Linking isn’t required for amplification. The burden is on me, not him.” Fandaniel eyed the Exarch. “There is the risk your limited senses would be burned out… But in a manner that should be repairable.”

_Wow. This sounds, uh, experimental._

“Give me a break. When would I ever have cause to try this on a naturally-occurring mortal?”

The Exarch blinked. “Who… Were you just talking with Cahsi?”

“-- Ah. Yes. Sorry.”

That sealed it. Determination returned to the Exarch’s expression.

“I’d like to try,” he told her. “Especially if any damage is repairable. Cahsi-- she’d be a great help to us. I can’t even begin to state the extent.”

_He never misses a chance to talk you up..._

_And he’s yet to be wrong about me, either!_ Cahsi winked, obviously and inordinately pleased by his praise. _Incredible, isn’t he?_

Ardbert shook his head with a grin.

Meanwhile, Fandaniel hesitated. She eyed the Exarch seriously. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, and tangled in her simple black robe.

“You really want to try?” she asked. “I wasn’t joking about that potential burn-out.”

“I’m positive,” he said. Ardbert had to hand it to him: he sure sounded it.

When Emet-Selch made no move to interfere and the Exarch refused to budge from his stubborn stance, Fandaniel broke.

“Alright,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves (only for them to immediately roll back down) in a move that seemed borrowed from Cahsi’s repertoire, “don’t say I didn’t warn you. But take a seat, just in case. I wouldn’t want to give you another concussion if your body decides it needs a nap after processing dimensions it previously didn’t know existed.”

 _That has to be the most ominous way to put it,_ Ardbert muttered.

_No kidding!_

Regardless, the Exarch simply nodded and, glancing around, took a seat on the edge of Fandaniel’s lone sofa. It greatly resembled the one her team had used for naps in the tower because it absolutely was one and the same. At least it looked very comfortable to pass out on, if it came to that.

For the Exarch’s sake, Ardbert hoped it didn’t.

**. . .**

Miraculously: it didn’t.

Amplification expended very little of Fandaniel’s energy, though it required her absolute concentration. The Exarch couldn’t perceive them as more than blindingly bright cyan-blue blobs. When they spoke, their voices were as yells muffled by thick layers of cloth. 

But he could track where they walked, and knew when they talked, and bled from no orifice of his body, which was a lot more than Fandaniel set them up to expect. 

If pressed, Ardbert could not describe his feelings on the matter. They were far too big, and far too unexpected. He took in Cahsi’s excited shoulder-slaps and jubilant cheering when the Exarch reported that, yes, he could see them, and yes, he thought he understood their words, though he had to concentrate. As Cahsi leapt immediately into ‘testing’ the Exarch’s perception with various ridiculous phrases and stances -- _what am I doing now, G’raha? Pretending to brush off my clothes?! No! I’m obviously pretending to pet an imaginary carbuncle!_ \-- Ardbert hung back, his arms crossed tight across his chest as he tried, unsuccessfully, to fight down his grin.

“I think I-- I think I understood that sentence,” the Exarch said. “She’s got her carbuncle?”

“You’ve been haunted by one of those creatures as well? My condolences,” Emet-Selch said to Fandaniel. “Why, three makes quite the crowd. It’s incredible you haven’t petitioned for a larger apartment.”

“Not exactly,” she replied to the Exarch, giving Emet-Selch a sardonic look for his quip, “but, yes, ‘carbuncle’ factored in.”

The Exarch’s smile stretched ear-to-ear. Without intervention, it looked fit to stay there permanently.

Once he’d confirmed he could perceive them, everything about him had lightened to rival the sun at its peak over Amh Araeng. Ardbert was happy for him. Happy for all of them, actually, because this… made things a lot easier. It was a full-on windfall, and damned incredible to boot. Even limited perception-- gods. Fandaniel was one thing, but to have someone from the First recognize their existence… 

Cahsi’s presence kept him from falling back into the dark pit she’d dragged him out of upon her arrival in the First, but in a place as crazy as _ancient Amaurot_ , well-- a bit of him had wondered whether any of it was real, or if he and Cahsi were just going through end-of-life motions in the weirdest way possible. Her from multiple Lightwardens' worth of Light poisoning, him from exposure, with Amaurot as the fever-induced backdrop due to Emet-Selch’s personal involvement in their final moments. The Scions and Exarch played the out-of-reach roles of hope, while Fandaniel… Well, Fandaniel didn’t really fit in, but Ardbert wasn’t an expert in death. Just non-life.

Eventually Cahsi bade him from his brooding corner to try to communicate. He hesitated, but went with it, awkwardly wandering to stand in front of the Exarch and duly repeat a nonsensical child’s rhyme -- _an amiable amaro ate eight adequate apples_ \-- until the Exarch caught it.

When he repeated back the amaro and apples bit, Ardbert’s non-existent heart felt fit to burst from his chest.

Cahsi, who’d been absolutely enraptured by the exchange, caught one look at his face and immediately bulldozed into his side.

Nearly knocked over from the abrupt pressure, Ardbert floundered. _Hey, watch it--!_

_Aww, Ardbert, look at that, you big softie,_ Cahsi crooned, trying unsuccessfully to hook him into a headlock and muss his hair, _c’mere, I gotta give you a hug!_

It was just ridiculous enough to push him away from his impending, way-way-way-too-overwhelming pit of feelings. Ardbert ducked her headlock and then put her in one of his own, his height and much muscle on her an advantage he was absolutely happy to use. She squawked indignantly, shoving an elbow ineffectively into his stomach and flailing all about in the most uncoordinated counterattack yet.

“What’s happening?” The Exarch asked, alarm in his voice over whatever he saw as they tousled like children.

“They’re wrestling,” Fandaniel said over their heads, “or something. I don’t know, Cahsi started it.”

“Oh. Then they’re probably fine.”

 _\-- What’s that supposed to mean?_ Cahsi demanded from where Ardbert had her pinned half-way to the ground, his arms locked under hers from behind.

 _Means he doesn’t understand that you often pick fights you have no hope of winning,_ Ardbert told her.

_Okay, sure, maybe, but may I just say, kettle, pot, much? -- Ow, ow, ow, hey! Let go! You cheated!_

_Cheated? By whose standards?_

_I’m just a poor scrawny summoner, you’re a big strong warrior, this is completely unfair-- ack! I yield, I yield!_

As turn-about was fair play, Ardbert continued messing up her hair with a relentless noogie.

“They’re fine,” Fandaniel confirmed. Then, after a moment: “Unfortunately, I think our time is almost up.”

The Exarch started. “Has it been that long? It feels like we just arrived.”

“I need some time to recoup before we return to the Capital,” she said, her voice apologetic, “and focusing on maintaining this spell isn’t really helping my headache. I’m sorry, Exarch. Perhaps… It’s difficult to tell when we will next recess from our session, but when we do, I will make straight away for the tower.”

Wrestling didn’t have as much of an appeal after that. Perhaps feeling the same, Cahsi didn’t even retaliate or press her advantage when Ardbert let up on his grip and stepped away.

 _What about the others?_ Cahsi asked. Although Ardbert thought her close to despair and frustration in equal measure, her voice was remarkably strong. Demanding, yes, but firm.

“The Scions need to know,” the Exarch said, unintentionally echoing Cahsi.

“You’ll have to tell them without me.” Hands laced on her lap, Fandaniel ducked her head low, her eyes lidding and shoulders slumping. An Amaurotine apology in act and word. “I really am sorry. I’ve matters to attend to before we rejoin the Convocation. Hades, if you would--?”

“Certainly.” And yet, Emet-Selch did not move from his unspoken vigil by the kitchen table, where he’d stood and watched -- and briefly, consistently commented on -- their entire exchange. As Ardbert expected based on his lack of movement, Emet-Selch next said, tone gearing up for something grandiose, “But, before we do.”

“Nope, sorry. You already said you’d go,” Fandaniel interrupted, her apologetic tone gone in a flash as her back straightened and eyes narrowed.

“You know what the future holds.”

At first, Fandaniel regarded him with open confusion. _Yes,_ she seemed to say, _and it’s an apocalypse. What’s your point?_

But then, before their very eyes, his obtuse reference clicked in place, and her lip curled. She gripped her right wrist hard with her left. 

“I would rather keep this conversation to the Convocation’s negotiation table,” she said, her multi-layered voices unusually tight, “and not in front of others.”

“The Warriors of ill-begotten Light witness all that has been and will be discussed in your presence. And if you’re true to your word of visiting the Tower on our next break, they will soon be able to tell the Scions themselves. What’s the difference between then and now?”

Fandaniel gave the Exarch a pointed glance.

The Exarch took great care not to deserve the attention. He avoided her gaze, his eyes carefully studying the mess of books on the floor as if he hadn’t noticed anything so fascinating before. 

That one of his ears remained trained on the Amaurotines ruined the image.

Looking back to Emet-Selch, who played into ignoring the Exarch’s presence, Fandaniel gave up. “Alright, fine. What exactly would you want to discuss?”

Emet-Selch met her gaze and held it. His face was curiously blank.

He said, “You haven’t approved or disapproved of Zodiark.”

“No one has. Elidibus hasn’t called a formal vote.”

“You know what primals make of our world, yet you entertain the idea?”

“I don’t _like_ it, or the endless cycle of _genocide_ that you, Lahabrea and Elidibus apparently became _just fine_ with committing over and over-- and don’t tell me why you don’t think it counts as genocide, I already heard, and I don’t like _that_ either, especially for what it implies about Zodiark’s hold on your mind,” Fandaniel replied immediately, then stopped. 

Inhaled. 

And admitted, with an impressive amount of poise, “... But we don’t know what else will work just yet.” Another pause, and then her suspicion of him returned in full force. “I’d prefer you tell them the full truth sooner than later, though, or I will.”

Emet-Selch took offense at this. “What pertinent truths have I left out? I warned them of the necessary sacrifices, as well as the likelihood that our people may have to contribute.”

“Everything that I don’t like goes back to one thing: tempering.” Her gaze and tone both hardened. “You’ve told them we might avoid it. That’s so close to a lie, it reeks.”

“Theoretically--”

“-- We _won’t._ Are you still in favor of Zodiark knowing that the cycle will begin anew?”

“We have more time to work out the exceptions,” he insisted, “and more resources.”

“To think of something _else_ ,” she returned. “Something that doesn’t… bind and warp us. Tell me you don’t think it’s a good thing. Cahsi told me you did, but I won’t believe it until I hear it from you.”

“It--” Emet-Selch started, then stopped. 

“Yes?” she pressed.

“... Of the prices we pay, it’s the smallest.”

She made a frustrated noise. “It isn’t. It’s our very freedom. Even if we survive, we might as well be extinct.”

His back straightened, his mouth twisted. “That isn’t true.”

“It _is_ true. After so long in servitude, you must know it is.” Her voice dropped low. “We’d be no better than the nymphs by Diateichisma. Driven by an unseen force, our conduct and thought dictated by another’s will and purpose. How could you impose that life upon our people?”

“What other choice do we have?” Emet-Selch asked, plain and simple, his hands spread and open by his sides. “ _Yes_ , a future without tempering would be fine indeed, but I hear no alternatives. I’m all ears if you have any bright ideas.”

“I’m working on some!”

“That means you have none.”

“At the _moment--_ ”

“What caused the universe’s death?”

At the Exarch’s quiet question, Fandaniel and Emet-Selch quit snapping at each other’s throats long enough to look over at him. In the pause, the room’s tensions dropped back to a manageable amount.

Emet-Selch eyed him as if he were being intentionally thick. Then said, slowly, “The Doom.”

“That’s the symptom, not the disease.” A beat. “I mean, it’s the disease and the symptoms, but it may not be the _cause._ What _started_ the Doom?”

Fandaniel looked to Emet-Selch.

Emet-Selch kept a narrow eye on the Exarch, clearly skeptical on where he was going with this, but played along nonetheless. As _entertaining mortals_ wasn’t a state Emet-Selch often willingly put himself into, Ardbert took note.

He said, “The first go around, we were too busy damming the tide to investigate its origin. It came from the Star itself. On a broader scale, it was the universe collapsing upon itself.”

“We can’t very well travel around the universe, but we have the time to investigate this Star. Perhaps it’s possible to prevent the rot from ever taking root.”

Before the Exarch even finished, Emet-Selch shook his head. He put one hand on his hip while he waved the other in front of his face as if clearing a bad smell. “If it originated from the universe at large, we haven’t a hope of preserving a singular Star from it. When you can’t dodge the bullet, you’d best know how to patch it. In this situation, Zodiark is the patch.”

Cahsi crossed her arms tight, and scoffed. Loudly.

 _Ascians,_ she grumbled (also loudly) at Ardbert’s side, _they think because they thought of it first and it worked once, it must be the best way._

As Fandaniel hadn’t dismissed her spell on soul amplification, Emet-Selch’s attention shifted to her. Once he realized who made the noise-- and perhaps who said the Ascian bit, though how much he picked up on them, Ardbert had yet to properly discern-- he rolled his eyes, and redirected his gaze to the Exarch.

Who had a small smile on his face, possibly from Cahsi’s commentary. 

Or from a burst of confidence, wherever it came from. He said, “Why not? No one’s tried. If we locate the origin on this Star before it spreads, we might contain it.”

“I like that idea far better than snapping collars on our people and handing the leash to some unpredictable God,” Fandaniel muttered. Then, raising her voice back to normal, “Even if it doesn’t work, you’ve already handed over the basic blueprints to Zodiark. Minus the improbable adjustments of sacrificial targets and inevitable bickering between our fellow Convocation members, the hard part of _that_ plan is done. We should give the prevention method a try. You have an idea of what to look for with the Doom, and I’ve got my head straight on my shoulders.”

“Alexander is on schedule as well,” the Exarch said, “and to be truthful in that regard, your friend is worth five of me, or anyone like me. He may work faster without us underfoot.”

“Oh, obviously, your adventuring group will be involved,” Emet-Selch drawled.

Not to be baited, the Exarch simply nodded. His eyes drifted to where Cahsi and Ardbert stood. Though he could not make out their features, their very presence put steel in his spine and cautious optimism in his voice. “Altogether, it sounds like we have a new plan.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we do. Actually, why hadn’t we thought of that before?” Fandaniel demanded.

The Exarch carefully kept his eyes on Fandaniel as he said, “I think… we’ve all been too attached to what we know.”

Emet-Selch was much more unimpressed. “If I go on your wild goose chase, the chance of making the appropriate adjustments to mitigate the tempering and Zodiark’s energy requirements will become null.”

“Then--” In a move that fully betrayed just how frayed she was over the week’s events, Fandaniel threw up her hands. “-- Fine! Stay here and walk your path to Zodiark’s feet! We can ask relevant questions over the phone.”

Emet-Selch scowled. “Oh, no. I’m going with you.”

“ _Really_ ,” Fandaniel growled. “Be sure. Elidibus won’t let us change our mind twice.”

“Individuals that attempted to face the Doom without support were always certain to be infected by it.” Emet-Selch said smoothly. “If you go alone and do happen upon it by good or bad luck, you’d just as sure bring it back with you without realizing.”

Fandaniel blinked, thrown off guard by that particular angle. 

“I hadn’t known that,” she allowed, sitting back in her chair.

Slowly Emet-Selch nodded, his scowl lightening. 

Then he continued, “We’ll need a methodical approach to the areas we search, and a stock explanation regarding our presence for any nosy locals or interested foreign parties.” Cool and collected, as if he hadn’t been fighting the idea. Maybe he hadn’t been; maybe antagonism was just his default setting. “I’ll speak with Lahabrea on the matter as soon as the emergency session is resumed. I imagine it will take a day or two for Elidibus to warm to the idea. Once we are given the clearance and immunity to travel abroad, we may gather at the Ocular and make way for our first destination. Each excursion should take little more than a few hours, so as to cover the most ground.”

Elbow on the table, chin in hand, Fandaniel murmured, “Right. We’ll need to phone ahead to remote areas and ensure their aetherytes are functional, too… I’m not hauling a bunch of mortals and any necessary equipment through the Rift. No offense.”

“None taken.” The Exarch looked between the two of them. Although he wasn’t in his fancy robes, he had the poise of a leader striking a sought-after deal: calm, cautious, and ultimately, relieved. “We have a plan?”

In reflection of one former leader to another, Emet-Selch fell into a contemplative mood even as he replied, “We have an accord.”

Though he certainly didn’t seem excited by the prospect, the interested gleam in his eye told Ardbert he wasn’t just pulling their leg. He thought this might yield something worthwhile. Or he hoped it did. 

An Ascian’s hope drove his world to the brink of destruction. It was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

This time, it might even do some good.

 _Don’t we need Zodiark to happen?_ Cahsi asked.

_Or we just need to return to our timeline._

_Considering our luck, that’d be too easy._

_Probably. I’m positive we won’t see the catch until we’ve got our backs against the wall, though._

“Oookay.” All attention went back to Fandaniel. She took a moment and dragged a hand down her face, then stretched her arms over her head. “Great. We’ve got a plan. I’ll send Y’shtola a text when that plan can get started. In the meantime, I really _do_ want some time alone before we jump back into it-- can you both please return to wherever you came from?”

Immediately apologizing for infringing on her time, the Exarch hopped down from his place on the couch without a second thought. But then he hesitated, turning toward Ardbert and Cahsi-- and, after visibly wrestling with what to say, he offered them a simple, heartfelt, “Until then. Please take care, you two.”

 _See you soon, G’raha,_ Cahsi replied, happy as anything despite their impending, renewed isolation.

 _Yeah,_ Ardbert added, because Cahsi then looked at him in a way that said ‘you better be nice’ and really, whoa, he hadn’t realized how much he’d forgotten his manners until there were people he had to contend with that weren’t Cahsi or a no-escape-even-if-we-wanted Fandaniel, _it was nice seeing you. Bye for now._

It might have been his imagination, but the Exarch seemed to catch that. At least, he gave them both a wide smile before he returned, as he’d arrived, to Emet-Selch’s side. 

While he did, Ardbert found Emet-Selch looking directly at them, his expression yet drawn toward contemplation. Indeed, it deepened with serious consideration. Whether that was about the Warriors he and his had attempted repeatedly to murder or their plans for the near future (and their subsequent close proximity), Ardbert couldn’t guess.

Emet-Selch gave them a quick nod of farewell. Not a real or formal goodbye, but still more than expected. Then he turned away to leave.

 _The Exarch has strange taste in friends,_ Ardbert commented idly.

At the kitchen table, Fandaniel exhaled and pushed her hands out from her body in an intentional move. Though he felt no different, she undoubtedly released her one-sided focus on amplifying her soul. They were once again perceptible to one individual, and one individual only. 

_Friends? With Emet-Selch? That Emet-Selch, right there? Tall, dark, and melodramatic Emet-Selch?_ Baffled, Cahsi squinted at the tall and short robed figures making for the door. Ardbert saw Fandaniel hide her snort by noisily standing up, making sure her chair scratched against the flooring. _You really think so? It wasn’t that long ago he shot him in the literal back._

Ardbert shrugged. He just remarked on what he saw.

Besides, _Don’t you remember our first meeting? Even if it was for what we thought was good cause, we were both pretty set on, at minimum, maiming each other._

_… Right. So, we all have strange taste in friends._

_Hah. Yeah. I’d never imply otherwise._

**. . .**

As G’raha had upon the Warrior of Light’s arrival in the First, this too was news he was happy to tell the others. 

To say the Scions were overjoyed would be an understatement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g'raha, like anybody else who has had the good fortune of asking them for help, can appreciate just how [serious and professional the WOLs are](https://i.imgur.com/l3VtLnW.png) at every given opportunity
> 
> [Jacakloping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackaloping) is responsible for the cutebutt art!! Cahsi Theia the miqo'te WOL is also entirely hers, I just got to use her here for my own purposes. :') <33


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** mild body horror in this chapter. body horror is canon-typical. includes pictures but details are kept light.

The first stop was their only concrete lead. They found her, requested she join them for a few questions in a small, dark, unused room in the back of the Bureau of Administration, and asked, in a manner intended to be friendly despite the harsh blue lights over them and the overall everything of being in a small, dark, unused room with complete strangers: “In the last year, have you ventured outside of Amaurot?”

“Um…” The Akadaemia student fidgeted in her chair, everything about her bowed to look smaller and non-threatening under the Investigatory Assistant’s solemn regard. “... Are you sure I’m not in trouble?”

She resolutely did not look toward the hulking, red-masked Convocation member in the corner. She very much wanted to. Everyone in the room knew she wanted to, and everyone in the room also pretended they didn’t notice.

“You are not,” the Assistant replied, kindly.

Something about those words in a gentle tone made the student shrink further into her uncomfortable, straight-backed chair.

“Is this about the marine biology seminar? We were just joking, we weren’t actually going to let the sharks out, we were just stressed about midterms, the Professor is really strict and we did awful on the practice tests, so--”

“This has nothing to do with your schooling,” the Assistant assured her, “although I imagine we both look forward to you returning to your studies.”

If the student shrank any lower in her chair, she’d be a puddle on the floor.

“Um,” she stalled again, “well. Yes. I’d traveled to Styx over the summer, with some friends.”

“Where specifically in Styx?”

“Just, you know, around.”

The Convocation member shifted from one foot to the other. 

The student’s attention snapped to the faint rustle of cloth, then jumped hastily back to the Assistant.

“We went to Eurydice Lane.”

The Assistant wrote that down on a little yellow notepad.

“You and your friends?”

“-- Well -- sort of.”

The Assistant’s pen stilled.

“Please be precise.” A bit more absently, “It would be very helpful to returning you to your studies sooner than later.”

The student privately filed that under _extremely threatening_.

“-- Well-- I, uh, I was alone, admittedly-- they say it’s bad luck to go in groups.” The student fidgeted again with the end of her sleeve. “And… my friends had stayed up pretty late the night before, so…”

“So you were the only one?”

“Yes.” She rallied herself. “Have you ever been? The mako pools are as beautiful as they say. It was almost as if I could touch the souls within. It was definitely worth it to, er, go,” and lost her fire, as the Convocation member abruptly made for the door, “even, um, alone.”

The Assistant primly recorded as much.

The student stared after the Convocation member, who left the room without a word.

Somehow, the room was much less overwhelming once that presence was gone. Curiosity, troublesome thing it was, began to rise in the student’s mind.

“Thank you for your help,” the Assistant said, “it is quite appreciated,” just as the student very much found herself happy to not return to her studies and, in fact, talk more.

Of course, once she’d felt more interested, the Assistant refused to answer any of her questions, and simply escorted her out of the dark room and, as promised, back her to studies.

Unfortunately for the administration’s stress levels, the best way to spark a rumor was to ignore a question. Especially when the rumor-starter had marine biology to study, and three full days to procrastinate before the midterm.

**. . .̸͚̈́͛ ̶̡̺̦̫͉̰͇̼͕̮͇͗̇̂̀͊̄̊̃̉͜ͅ ̵̜͚͎̟̤͍̆̑͘̚,̷̧̻̞̼͐̈̐̀̅̾̚ ̴̻̰̞̄͗ . .̶̊̏͌͝͠**

Styx did not bear the fruits they had wished for. 

Eurydice Lane was a long, deep cavern that slanted endlessly downward. At a certain point where one’s ears popped and the air chilled until breath clouded before one’s face, the walls gained a luminescent, green tint. Those with a scientific mind put the cavern at far below sea-level, as Styx itself already sat alarmingly low in elevation, and that the green tint was from its proximity to an untapped Lifestream vein that had spiked up from the Star’s core. Fortunately the vein hadn’t manifested _too_ much, or else the cavern would need to be closed down from toxin concerns.

The less-scientifically inclined, which were most in Styx, had much more to say about the Lane. The most popular origin story by far was that the Lane had turned into a local phenomenon since time immemorial after a young couple had emerged from it unusually aged, undisputedly wise, and blindingly in love. As Fandaniel went around asking about any strange events surrounding the Lane (and found herself rebuffed quickly with embarrassed laughter or _surely we need not discuss that old place?_ ), they were quickly informed that ‘local phenomenon’ translated to, roughly, ‘popular spot for romantic trysts.’

Urianger supposed he could see why. When he, the Exarch, and Y’shtola reached the point in the Lane where the walls glowed green, the cavern had an ephemeral, other-worldly quality. Plenty of nooks and crannies had suspiciously-convenient flat-top rock formations to sit upon, especially before the Lifestream’s more prominent green webbing. Under the right circumstances, nothing but their breathing disturbed the air. The surface was little more than a memory, and a distant one at that. With the right person on one’s arm, the setting became startlingly intimate in its beautiful isolation.

Except the Lane was so popular and so prone to echoing, one could hear the chatter and troop of other individuals heading their way from a malm behind.

The three of them stood at the edge of a smaller nook in the wall, watching such individuals pass by. Fandaniel and Emet-Selch had ventured further down, aided by a local guide that had been offering such tours at the cave’s entrance. Although Emet-Selch had traveled with them to the Styx in his Garlean form, he’d shucked it for his Convocation robes and mask when it became obvious that they would make better time with the local’s help. Even one such as a Lane-obsessed guide.

Privately, Urianger thought it prudent that Thancred and the younger in their number had stayed behind. Although Thancred had kept himself and Ryne behind because he believed the entire Doom-finding expedition to be a death-loving fool’s errand, and the twins remained with them due to their reasonable concern that Hythlodaeus would need aid with the Tycoon’s rebuilding, Styx… was an interesting but futile venture.

“Do you sense anything odd?” The Exarch asked Y’shtola, not sounding like he expected much.

“The energy collected here is massive, but ultimately harmless,” Y’shtola replied evenly, confirming the Exarch’s suspicions. “Truthfully, it’s blinding. Even worse than at the festival.”

“The festival? You hadn’t mentioned anything.”

“Each Amaurotine soul is its own miniature sun. Although I could tell it was cool and dark during the night, when I opened my senses, it might as well have been midday in a white-sand desert.”

“Then…”

“We truly are as a shapeless shard in comparison.”

Undoubtedly thinking that was yet another thing Emet-Selch hadn’t lied about that they all would rather he had, the Exarch grimaced. His attention shifted to Urianger.

Without needing to be asked, Urianger said, “Aside from providing insights into what an immortal might find interesting, I’ve heard nothing.”

“Such as?”

“We all heard the original myth attached to this cavern. But it appears, according to the mouth of a long-time local, that the second most popular rumor ist that upon a couple reaching the Lane’s end, one shall be cursed to return to the Lifestream early and leave their lover in a lurch.” 

“And so the great unknown of death fascinates them, hm?” Y’shtola said quietly, without humor.

“Considering the traffic this cavern witnesses… Its allure certainly appears strong.”

The Exarch tilted his head. “Doesn’t the cavern simply open up malms away in another city’s outskirts?”

“Perhaps the true death is a lover on the lam, never to be seen again save on another’s arm,” Y’shtola murmured from the corner of her mouth, turning her head away as a robed couple passed them.

The edge of Urianger’s mouth quirked up. “T’is a tale as old as time.”

Far before they could have reached the other end (no matter how much longer their legs were), Fandaniel and Emet-Selch returned to them. 

Per their collective findings, nothing out of the ordinary occurred _within_ the Lane. But, lone individuals who walked its halls at their least crowded tended to have peculiar stories related to ‘glitching’ magic usage upon their exit. None had suffered permanent damage from the instances. Indeed, most of Styx’s populace believed the isolated and infrequent incidents to be the product of a romance gone south, as all knew strong emotions very easily warped otherwise beneficial Creation magics.

Quite possibly the Doom as it stood was a latent disease, triggered upon an unknown cause. They wouldn’t know without more evidence.

The guide, who remembered every story about the Lane that he’d been told by visitors old and new with frighteningly obsessive accuracy (Fandaniel’s words, exactly), mentioned that those individuals had mostly taken a lesser-known side-path from the Lane’s main route. The side-path narrowed too much for any of them, even the Exarch, to pass through, but there was a large, alternate opening a far distance north of Styx. It was thus decided that they would report their findings to the Convocation and trek there on the sunrise of the next day.

That night, Thancred repeated to Urianger his confusion at what in the world they were doing, running around trying to solve a problem that had already happened and _had_ to happen. 

Y’Shtola invested her energy _because_ they didn’t know what had started the Doom. If they returned to their time and destroyed Zodiark -- as was a looming, likely goal for the near future, considering their merry band’s impressive collection of defeated primals -- and inevitably triggered the Doom again, they had best learn how to recognize and deal with it in a way that didn’t subject them to the very god-monster they destroyed. The Exarch tended toward her line of thinking as well, with the added bent of, _It’s what the Warrior of Light would do. We should, too._

The practical part of Urianger agreed with Thancred: this wasn’t their business, and it distracted them from returning to their time when they, due to their incorporeal nature, were already on a limited clock. But the rest of him saw what Thancred wouldn’t allow himself to say, because if he did, he would have to give it his all, too. Urianger understood his need to remain separate. The weight of yet another world was almost crushing. Regardless of Thancred’s actions, they both shared the sentiment: were they to do nothing while an entire race’s universe collapsed upon itself? 

At least this way, they could say they tried. It wasn’t that they gave up on Eorzea, or Norvrandt, or the people and homes they knew. It wasn’t that they prioritized one soul, no matter its presence, over another. 

It simply preserved their ability to look Emet-Selch in the eye and say, _Given the option, we would not turn our backs._

**. . ..̸͗́͗͒ e̷͔̻͓̞̖͊̐ ̷̛͈̰͓̪̘̅̑̌̂̌̃̓̓̊͝.̵̓̅͗̓̊̓͠ ̴̛̖͐͋̋̓̇̿̂͗̈́̀̃̀̇͒ ,̸͕̆̏͌͆̆̌̏͆͜͝ ̵̛̛̥̣̍̿͐̽̾̈́̊̚͝ . . .ĺ̶̲͌ ̶͂̓̑̍̽͘͘̚͝ ,̸̆̏͌. .**

“... el…”

The sound.

“...ch?”

The _sound._

“Em… seh...”

Screeching. Ringing. Metal fingers on a chalkboard, blades struck against plating until sparks flew and the something underneath screamed. It clattered and rattled about his cranium. It drove one, two, _five_ nails into his skull, twisting each at every inch. It was so loud he could taste it: the bitter, rancid stench of ceruleum clogged his nose, his throat, and sat heavy upon his tongue. He choked on it, writhed around it, cowered and fled and could not expel it.

“...!”

He needed it gone. Whatever it was, it needed to be expunged. His body would not let it go. He needed to leave his body, then; and so he reached for the Underworld, reckless in this strange, all-consuming pain, the likes of which he had _never_ experienced, lest he had and his mind and soul had forgotten it for its twisting horrors. His magics rose to meet him, wild and temperamental in the face of his pain, pain, _pain--_

_Burning._

A concerned face set immediately in front of him sprang to his vision as his eyes snapped open. Dim yellow illuminated the face; behind it, an uneven, rocky, low-slung ceiling pulsed with faint green veins. Experience told him that the green was in fact streams that would undoubtedly lead to an open pool of raw, unprocessed mako. The very pool they had arrived in this area to search for, in fact.

The yellow glow came from fire that burned very, very close to his face. It explained both the searing pain in his shoulder and the smell of cooking flesh that overtook the repugnant stench of ceruleum.

The _sound_ yet shook his thoughts from their proper tracks. He nonetheless instructed his arm to raise and shove the face -- which was increasingly familiar, as his mind’s pain-fueled fog faded somewhat -- away.

He got a hand to the other’s shoulder and a vice-like grip upon the dust-covered robes there, but not more.

Fortunately, whether due to his actions or not, the fire extinguished itself. 

Unfortunately, the burning did not cease.

 _Hells_ , why was his body tormenting him so? It was his-- mortal facade, yes, but his efforts to either numb the nerves or detach himself refused to produce results, his magics leaping erratically about his body and funneling into everything _but_ his on-fire shoulder.

“...op,” the now very familiar face told him, its tone curiously and feverishly worried, its eyes wide and pupils blown in the dark, such that their glorious red were but rings emphasized by the cavern’s green glow, “Emet-Selch, you need to _stop._ Whatever you’re doing is making it worse.”

That made no sense. He made to say as much, but found his jaw clenched too tight to open.

A blue hand covered the grip he yet had on the Exarch’s shoulder. Its touch was blessedly cool, and incredibly solid. By how it tried to pry him off before settling for squeezing his wrist, his grip-- may have been too tight.

He couldn’t tell. He could barely feel his fingers.

“Emet-Selch,” the Exarch repeated, the concern in his tone dialing up a few notches, which was quite impressive as the Exarch lately was always concerned about something or other, stress-prone creature he was, “please. What are you doing? Quit it.”

What was he doing? Trying to stop his pain, that was what! Trying to heal his shoulder, trying to forget the _scream_ of a Star’s _death._

\-- Ah. So that was the sound.

He thumped his head back on the hard ground, and found his neck to ache as badly as his shoulder, so tense had he been holding himself. He temporarily ceased wrangling his unruly magics into working for him, perturbed by their reluctance to weave according to his will and, just a bit, by the naked fear in the Exarch’s voice as well.

Finally, his jaw unclenched enough for him to gasp, and pant, his lungs heaving for breath. The green around them intensified, especially along his right side.

Bit by bit, he felt less the burn in his shoulder and more the itch along his skin of sweat old and new. It was an unpleasant but significant improval.

Mutterings lingered just outside of his understanding. In contrast, the _sound_ lingered as a shadow at the corner of one’s eye. He need only think on it a moment, inquire into its origin or its making or anything about it, and it would return. That, he knew without knowing, as one knew without knowing how to blink. 

The pain in his shoulder abated to a dull, bone-deep ache. The rest of him was one large bruise, with his fingers and feet curiously numb in an uncomfortable manner. 

The Exarch’s green light petered out until they saw only by the cave’s natural glow.

Then, and only then, did Emet-Selch recognize that the mutterings came from the Exarch, and that they were not as harsh as expected.

“There you are,” the Exarch said, soft and low, as a well-trained nurse to a patient on the cusp of death, “I’ve cauterized the wound and sealed it against infection, at least for the time being. You really fought me on this one, even though it was mostly for your benefit.”

“I don’t recall anything of the sort,” he managed, his words a whisper due to his dry and tight-from-pain throat, “but I’d hardly deny it.”

Under his hand, which rested but no longer clenched on the Exarch’s shoulder, the Exarch startled.

He said, “Well, that’s good,” after a pause wherein he blinked and leaned in ever closer to Emet-Selch’s face, as if to see him better in the cave’s dim lighting, “since it’s nothing but what you do on a normal basis.”

Debatable. The mortals rarely acted in his interest.

But he would not argue right then. As it annoyed him to be so physically affected by something he didn’t remember, Emet-Selch fought to control his breathing. It proved harder than expected.

His eyes slipped close, and he dropped his hand back to his side. The ground under him was unnaturally warm, when it should have been as cool as the Exarch’s crystal limb. It felt like a half-living thing. It made sense, as the ground was a thin barrier between them, the Star leaking aetherial energies as evidenced by the raw mako veins, and the Lifestream’s subsequent, very close presence, but was not at all reassuring regarding their situation.

Forcing his eyes open to rove the far-too-close ceiling, he coughed to clear his throat, and ignored how it shot pain through his chest. “Where are we?”

The Exarch eyed him closely, but sat back when he made no effort to sit up and undo whatever healing he’d worked into him. His head tipped back to scan the ceiling as well, his hands balling in his lap. His robes were a mess: dust-covered and dirt-streaked, torn and faintly bloodied at the hem along his right side. The gold that typically hung off his sleeve had been ripped clean off.

“We were half-way to the rupture’s location when a sinkhole opened and we fell through the floor, through green mist and into… here. I mended my legs while you stabilized the walls, then asked if I ‘heard that', and promptly passed out.” He returned his attention to Emet-selch proper. “You’d landed on your shoulder and broke your clavicle pretty badly. That’s what I healed.”

“Burned, you mean,” Emet-Selch grumbled, because he could. His eyes again slipped close, his headache returning with a vengeance once his adrenaline began to fade. “You and your propensity for fire.”

The Exarch scowled, so easily riled was he. “Just as I thought you’d begun to wake, you started convulsing. Your shoulder sprouted these-- and I-- I didn’t know what else to do.”

Ignoring how alarm flooded his being, he made a vaguely curious noise. “Sprout what, exactly?”

“... I couldn’t describe it.” Except he then said, “They were grotesque. Like an open rash, but the bumps were massive and-- putrid, and it wouldn’t stop spreading--” He stopped himself. Took a deep breath. “Cauterizing stopped it, at least.”

That sounded highly unpleasant.

“That sounds highly unpleasant,” he said aloud. “And disgusting.”

A beat.

“It was,” he replied on a short exhale, the tension in his voice relaxing a touch. “What were you doing? When you panicked, it got worse.”

“Nothing.” A beat. No. That wasn’t true. He’d heard the sound, and he’d been trying to expel it. “Aside from trying to stabilize my own body.”

“Truly?” Skepticism. “You tore it apart.”

Sardonic, “Not intentionally, I assure you.”

“Nonetheless, you did a fine job of it.”

“Apparently. How fortunate for me.”

The Exarch’s warm, flesh hand touched upon his brow. Unexpected as the contact was, Emet-Selch snapped his eyes open again-- and hissed, as his sudden tension jostled his shoulder. He absently flexed his fingers, reaching for a basic spell… and finding his magic as unhappy to cooperate with him as before. It must have been the Lifestream’s smothering presence behind the Star’s leaking energies that interfered with his control.

Never to allow him a moment’s respite from the truth, his mind reminded him: _you’ve always borne an affinity for the Lifestream and its Underworld. That’s not it._

Cold washed over him. He shivered, the Exarch’s hand a branding iron upon his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” the Exarch stated needlessly, pulling back his hand with a light frown. “It must be an aetherial disease, and a fairly instantaneous one at that, as you had been fine and I can’t detect or cure it. What did you hear? Before you passed out.”

The sound.

The scream. The pain. The dread and fear and end of all that had been good.

He said, “The Star’s dying gasp.”

The Exarch’s eyes widened.

Rather than demand a further explanation as expected, he began searching their surroundings. He shifted forward until his knees bumped Emet-Selch’s arm. Emet-Selch’s fingers twitched again.

“Then we’ve found it?” He looked around as if the answer would pop out at them and yell _boo!_ “The Doom’s origin?”

“Not necessarily,” Emet-Selch replied, his voice blank because there was nothing else it could be, “but it is a decent lead.”

And they were sitting directly in the middle of it.

And Emet-Selch had been infected by it.

The Exarch, clever mortal he was, realized _that_ connection very quickly. His expression froze, then unfroze. His eyes flitted to Emet-Selch’s face and then back around the room, more desperately than before. 

Emet-Selch focused on his breathing, and not the dark, dark presence lingering at the corner of his mind’s eye. 

Eventually the Exarch’s gaze drifted, slow and reluctant, back to Emet-Selch. His eyes were merciless, his mouth tight at the corners as his head bowed forward. His hands bunched his robes in his lap, white-knuckled and anxious. Undoubtedly thinking about what they had discussed and what he and his Warrior had experienced in his ghostly Amaurot: the only way to stop the Doom was to destroy its creations.

There was nothing in Emet-Selch that could begrudge him what he had to do. 

There was nothing in Emet-Selch that could encourage him to do what he needed to, either. 

But…

Neither would he not be a part of their demise.

An impulse rose in him to summon his magics and put an end to the Exarch before the Exarch paid him such a favor first. A greater impulse rose for him to encase them both in this rocky tomb, with a final prayer to Zodiark that they would not again be disturbed and the Doom in him, so buried alive, would not spread.

Except that was a foolish wish. The Doom would not halt over two untimely deaths. His people would be worse off without him. Even if they didn’t need _Hades_ , they needed Emet-Selch.

And they needed the Exarch. A master of Time and holder of an ever-bleeding heart.

Caught between warring desires, he found himself incapable of enacting either.

He blew out a breath. Tried to sit up, got to his elbows, and had to stop, his breathing again reaching erratic levels.

“What are you waiting for, then?” Emet-Selch murmured, curling his fingers in the loose dirt beneath his palms as he fought against vertigo. “You’ve good news to bring back to the Tower. Can you not teleport yourself there, or a nearby Aetheryte?”

As he watched, steel set itself along the Exarch’s spine. 

“Not from this distance, definitely not with a passenger, and I’m not just leaving you to die here,” he snapped, “alone and forgotten.”

“I’m as good dead here as anywhere else,” he pointed out.

Offense colored the Exarch’s words. “I healed you, and you yet speak with as much spite as you ever do. Not to mention the student that gave our first lead, who you were so convinced had been infected, remained fine long after her brush with it. What’s to say you’re lost?”

His magics. They had refused to follow his heed on a simple command to keep his body’s pain from him. They must have also been the cause of the disturbing rash the Exarch saw. That his body hadn’t been fully taken over was a mystery, but may have been in equal part due to his complete, fit-for-nature Garlean form and the Exarch’s intervention. Neither would last for any substantial amount of time.

The student had been hit by an early sign of the Doom, not the full force. She hadn’t reported any continued issues with her magics, and though he’d put her under observation (unbeknownst to her), she exhibited no signs, either. 

The sound had deserted her as quickly as it infected. The same did not seem to be true for Emet-Selch.

“We can get out of this together,” the Exarch continued, optimistic fool he was, “we just need to… make an exit. Can you--?”

“At the moment,” he interrupted, “my magics are not responding well to my command.”

The Exarch gave him a troubled look.

He met it, and under its beseeching weight, could do little more than say, “I wouldn’t test what the Doom might make of my Creations,” and shrug. From the twinge in his shoulder at the motion, he felt it just to add an empathetic, “Ouch.”

Frighteningly, the Exarch’s troubled look deepened. “Ouch? What now?”

Wasn’t it obvious? Emet-Selch shot a pointed look to his shoulder, where his robe had been hastily cut off-- by a knife from the clean edges of it, though he had no memory of the Exarch summoning one or taking it to his person-- and the flesh underneath all but melted into a red-brown patch of pain. It’d been left open to breathe, which also meant it was a particularly disgusting mess to look at.

Leaning forward, the Exarch brought his hand to hover over the wound. Within seconds, his fingertips glowed with soft blue light. He scrutinized the wound, then leaned back and frowned at Emet-Selch. “Does it feel different than a moment ago?”

“It hurts,” he responded, a bit baffled by the exchange. What was he supposed to say?

“But no more than after I cured you?”

“Not more, no.”

Another confused stare. 

Emet-Selch stared back, a bit miffed despite himself and the serious situation.

Then, the Exarch scoffed. It wasn’t a mean scoff. It was, in fact, quite unfairly amused.

“What?” Emet-Selch demanded, disgruntled. Was he being made fun of? Right _now?_

“You’ll be fine,” the Exarch assured him, as if he had _any_ business knowing that! While he spoke, he absently patted him on his whole and hale shoulder. “It’s a mere flesh wound. I’d have healed it entirely, but as conjury isn’t my best skill, I thought that better saved for when we’re not trapped in the middle of a volatile, arcane-soaked cavern.” 

Hands on his knees to help him up, he stood. The pocket of air and safety they’d landed in -- that he’d forged, apparently, though he truly didn’t recall anything past the feeling of the floor falling from beneath his seat and the Exarch’s simultaneous startled yelp -- had looked disturbingly small, but where Solus zos Galvus would need to hunch to not knock his head against the ceiling, the Exarch had no trouble rising to his full height.

“We’re breathing still, so there’s air coming in from somewhere…” He walked the perimeter in slow, measured steps. Five in one direction, away from Emet-Selch. Three along the wall opposite. Four coming back, the wall at a diagonal. Then again, this time with his flesh hand running lightly along the wall. Eventually he discovered an air vent, as he let out a quiet _aha!_ and began digging his crystalized fingers into a near-invisible seam between two larger rocks. Fortunately, his dig spot did not include the thin, glowing green sections of their makeshift cage. The last thing they needed was to be drowned by raw mako.

Well. That was enough laying around and watching. Emet-Selch began the slow process of getting himself to his feet as well, fighting vertigo and nausea at every step. Though he’d survived -- and died -- from worse, that he knew he couldn’t reach for his magics and yet wanted to anyway (like an audible but unknowable scratching, ever-gently and ever-insistently pulling at the edges of his awareness) made the process far more degrading than usual.

By the time he finally struggled to his feet, hunched to avoid knocking his head upon the ceiling, the Exarch had chipped away a handhold’s worth of their wall. Fortunately, the rock was soft and packed liberally with loose mud. Most likely it wasn’t rock at all but hardened clay, or some kind of silt residue from the rivers of Lifestream that they undoubtedly stood over. 

Another few seconds, and he struck through, a noise of surprise escaping him as his next jab-slash-dig motion put him through the wall to his elbow. When he pulled his arm out, brighter green-yellow light shone through. Warm, stale and humid air also began eking in, quickly turning their safety spot into a virtual sauna. It was probably toxic. Emet-Selch kept that fact kindly to himself.

The Exarch stuck his head to the gap immediately, peering through to catch sight of the next room.

“It’s a natural tunnel,” he reported, much cheerier with renewed hope. “Bit cramped, and there’s loads of aether crystals and pools… I can’t see where it goes, but at least it doesn’t seem to go down.”

“That’s our potential path out, then.”

“So it is.” The Exarch shuffled himself back a few steps, and raised his hands. The green-yellow light of conjury began to swirl about his arms.

Emet-Selch made a _careful, you idiot_ noise, taking a step back himself and pressing himself against the wall, because one wrong pull on one important rock and they would be crushed--

But either they were lucky or the Exarch was better at conjury than he claimed, as he lifted and shifted the earth away in such a manner as the cave around them did not complain one whit. Soon a rough doorway appeared before them. The Exarch immediately hopped through. On the other side, he glanced between the two directions the tunnel stretched and then turned to wave Emet-Selch over.

Begrudgingly pacified that the air wasn’t so toxic as to send the Exarch to his knees within seconds and that he himself was not liable to turn into a mindless beast from the Doom, he moved his way out of their makeshift cave and into the tunnel proper. True to the Exarch’s word, it was indeed difficult to tell how far or where to either side stretched, though glowing, Lifestream-green lined the ground between pools and the corridor’s walls and ceilings deep into the distance. Light pulsations moved through them as blood flowed through a living creature, calm and sedate. The yellow-tinged air hung heavy and wet.

It had its own remote beauty. This was a place hidden from corporeal creatures, untouched by the world above.

The Exarch pointed to his left, then his right, and repeated the action while murmuring some sort of rhyme under his breath. At last the rhyme ended, his pointing hand freezing to the right, and the Exarch declared, “This way seems best. Let’s get moving. Watch your step.”

As a rhyme had as much of a chance as being right as anything else they could do, Emet-Selch didn’t protest. 

His body did. Every step jostled something that ached, whether it was joint, limb, or just his entire being. At least his back had grown used to its poor posture, as he had to hunch slightly to keep his head from knocking on dangling stalactites. 

He moved much slower than the Exarch would have alone. But the Exarch didn’t comment, and so neither did he.

Surrounded only by the distant drip of water and occasional bubbling of steam released from the pools’ depths, they walked on.

As they did, Emet-Selch’s mind wandered. Though the open wound on his shoulder continued to itch and hurt, his collarbone seemed fine. It was peculiar the Exarch’s conjury had worked so well on knitting the broken bone below. As far as he could recall, magics didn’t work well on those wounded by the Doom. It tended to exacerbate the problem, or at least leave the medic as infected as their patient. Was it the difference between a mortal’s reliance on the elements around them more than their own innate power? That made little sense.

So distracted was he, he didn’t realize the Exarch had stopped until he’d nearly ran into him.

Hopping to the side to avoid falling over into an unfriendly-looking, bubbling pond of green, Emet-Selch stabilized himself and then spun on a heel to demand what the hold-up was-- and found the Exarch to be gazing directly into the pond he’d nearly taken a dip in.

“I think I see something in there,” he said. “It looks like a little minnow or… tadpole, maybe?”

“Nothing can linger in pure, raw mako without being dissolved,” Emet-Selch replied immediately, “and I highly doubt anything corporeal could exist for long in these conditions, either.”

The Exarch pointed to the pool’s uppermost corner. “Right. Okay. So, what’s that?”

Emet-Selch narrowed his eyes at the Exarch, then the pool.

Indeed, a small, long creature idled at its far edge, completely submerged in the liquid.

If it had ever been, it was not a minnow anymore. Eyeless and mouthless, its fins and gills gently moving at its sides, it was the suggestion of a fish, except the longer Emet-Selch looked at it, the less it resembled even that.

It had no eyes, yet Emet-Selch swore it watched them.

His skin crawled under its regard. His heart rate ticked up, his feet begging him to walk away.

He opened his mouth, meaning to admit, fine, the Exarch was right, _something_ was in there, but what he said was: “It doesn’t want us here.” Then he added, as he wrested more control from the thing’s heavy compulsions of _go away, fear me!_ , somewhat sarcastic, “It seems shy.”

Next to him, the Exarch gave a full-bodied shudder. He clutched his elbows, huddling himself inward. Apparently, he felt it too.

“It doesn’t have to tell us twice,” he agreed, and tore his eyes from the creature and back to their path. “Wish it could help us leave.”

Emet-Selch again fell into step behind him, ignoring how the hair on the back of his neck rose as the thing’s awareness lingered upon them. “It must be just as surprised to see us as we are to see it.”

“You really don’t know what sort of place we’re in?”

“No. At some point I’d read about places like this -- theories about them, at least, as leaks from the Star’s energies into our world tend to be small, sudden, and containable, not natural or far-reaching -- but they aren’t of interest to my people. Prolonged exposure to any amount begets peculiar effects on the psyche, so processing even minor spills comes at great cost and little benefit.”

“Then the mako factory in the Tower’s lower levels…”

“Was an incredibly foolish feat of engineering on my part, yes.”

The Exarch snorted. “At least you finally admit it.”

He sniffed. “It wouldn’t have been necessary if you all had even a fraction of my people’s gift for energy production.”

He made an unimpressed and ultimately uninterested noise. “What about ceruleum?”

“What about it?”

“It always seemed pretty touchy and, well, explosive. Weird thing to pump through war-machines which are bound to walk through or be hit with fire at some point.”

He shrugged, then winced at the pull of his shoulder. “There wasn’t much in the way of natural resources to work with in the frozen tundra of Garlemald. I’d thought to repurpose animal fats instead as a less flammable alternative, but the people were already starving without having to give up half of their hunt for the war effort.”

“That’s surprisingly considerate of you.”

“You judge too quickly.”

“What? It is.”

“I needed them alive long enough to march south.” He ducked below a particularly low and large stalactite. “And ultimately, it didn’t matter if their machines blew up with them inside as long as the resulting shrapnel took out the enemy, too.”

A beat of testy, hostile silence.

Honestly, he didn’t know what the Exarch expected. He hadn’t always been an architect of war, but it hadn’t been the hardest thing he’d learned.

“I can’t decide if it’s better or worse that you didn’t delight in it,” the Exarch said.

Neither could he, truth be told. He said, not sure whether it was better or worse, either: “It had been one of my more tedious assignments.”

“... I remember you complaining of it, years ago,” the Exarch admitted, the words loud only because of their surroundings’ overall quiet. “I hadn’t known what you were talking about at the time, other than your dislike for snow. But it was Garlemald, wasn’t it? You were off to become Emperor, while I just stood by and listened.”

Was he blaming himself for not stopping the war from beginning? That was an exceedingly Exarch-like thing to do, and wholly unnecessary. There was nothing he could have done at the time to halt the Empire. 

He said, “Little did I know the person I spoke to had already heard the tale of my son’s son’s graceful rise and inevitable fall from power. As a matter of fact, you still know more than I. Please tell me that that arrogant grandson of mine made a proper mess of it.” His tone was inordinately kind. Teasing, even. 

While it was a topic the Exarch typically disliked him making light of-- especially as he _knew_ the fall included the Black Rose, which had admittedly been a nasty concoction even by his standards-- he didn’t snap at him to knock it off. Instead he glanced over his shoulder, quick and furtive, and then shook and ducked his head with a light scoff.

“Did you enjoy any of it?” he asked, seemingly sincerely. Then, less sincerely, “Like the excuse to wear furs and far too many fancy layers, maybe?”

“The great clothing was a perk,” Emet-Selch said, graciously, “and an intentional one, let me assure you.”

“Please, rest easy. I had needed to see your usual royal garb only once to be assured of your flare for the extravagant.”

Around them, though the pools began to lessen in number, the yellow-green mist thickened. It muffled sound, such that not even dripping water reached their ears. Most curiously, it carried no particular odor and breathing remained no issue, although the humidity continued its oppressive stickiness.

At their feet, stalagmites grew taller. To their sides, flowstones blanketed the walls. As their precarious walking path thinned, they walked slower than ever.

After a moment of contemplation (and making sure he didn’t step on any slippery slope that would undoubtedly break his ankle and, with his current luck, his neck), Emet-Selch admitted, “My first son had been a true gift. When his mother first handed him to me, I knew he was something different. Something better.”

The Exarch fell quiet.

In the quiet, Emet-Selch continued. “Not that he acted it, of course. He’d been a terribly fussy baby. Never satisfied to be left alone, he’d wail and demand attention at all hours.”

“Which I’m sure you never denied him,” the Exarch said. 

Teased, even. There was definitely an unspoken implication that the Exarch thought him similar to his first born.

Maybe so. Knowing and demanding as one was properly due was a fine quality. It demonstrated self-awareness.

Anyway, it was presently irrelevant.

“He was so full of life, and the future Emperor besides. Who was I to say no to him?” Loftily spoken. More pointedly, “Did you ever deny Lyna?”

Perhaps thrown by the sudden reverse of conversation (or the fact he remembered the viis’ name), the Exarch cleared his throat. He stalled further by taking exaggerated and extra care to step across a shallow gap in the floor, then warn Emet-Selch of the gap, as if he hadn’t eyes himself. Emet-Selch humored him, giving him a _I know what you’re doing_ look as he took his own exaggerated step over the gap.

The Exarch avoided his eyes by returning to his forward trek.

“I believe her good character is testament to her resilience, not me,” he said.

Emet-Selch snorted. “Come off it. You raised her. Take some pride in a job well done.”

“Well,” the Exarch hedged, his tone flirting with embarrassment, “in the time I’ve known her, she has done great things. I’m proud to see what she’s accomplished.”

That was about as close as he’d get to boasting, probably. It was good enough.

They lapsed back into silence. This time, it was comfortable.

The air around them had become so thick as to be soup. Emet-Selch found himself reflexively blinking as if to clear it from his vision, but it refused. In fact, parts of it seemed denser than others. Like ribbons drawn through clouds, they weaved slow, trialing waves through the air.

This time when the Exarch suddenly stopped, Emet-Selch saw the reason at the same time and drew to a similar, awe-struck halt.

The dense pockets of air were not air at all, but creatures that played cousin to the fish-like thing they’d seen before. Long and thin, eyeless and mouthless, they drifted in slow arcs between stone spire and rocky gap. It rapidly became clear that _they_ were the cause of the mist: as they glowed, so they pulsed with yellow light, the gill-like flaps on the sides of their bodies emitting at the same time thick, green gas. Tiny fins set in innumerable rows along their belly moved as a centipede’s legs, pulling them gently through their self-made clouds.

Emet-Selch wasn’t sure whether he found them beautiful or disturbing. To be sure, they were surreal to watch. Most likely these were the adult forms of the thing they’d found in the mako pool. Impossible creatures turned naturally possible.

At a glance, four drifted before them. At a second glance, Emet-Selch spotted six. On the third, another three, to total nine, came into view.

On a hunch borne of old instinct, he looked behind them.

Sure enough, two more swam up from behind a crevice. They were effectively surrounded.

That fact definitely tipped them closer to the _disturbing_ side of the spectrum. And, also, put him and the Exarch firmly in the _we don’t belong here_ category.

“We should keep moving,” Emet-Selch said aloud, and very quietly. Something about these things inspired a strange feeling of respect in him. Perhaps it was their obvious connection with the Lifestream.

“I can’t,” the Exarch murmured back, voice equally low. “There’s too many. It’s a whole colony.”

“They seem peaceful enough. Just shoo them out of the way.”

The Exarch’s shoulders tensed. “No way. I’m not touching them.”

Emet-Selch squinted at his back. Was he being _squeamish?_

“We need to keep moving,” he insisted. “Do something to get them out of the way.”

“You shoo them, then,” the Exarch returned, slowly and carefully stepping himself the singular step he could to the side and gesturing, mockingly, Emet-Selch forward, “since you’ve no qualms.”

With him now to the side, Emet-Selch caught a better look at the ‘colony’ ahead.

‘Colony’ was putting it too lightly. It was as if the creatures _were_ the cave, so thickly and completely did they cover every inch. 

Peaceful though they appeared right then, if riled or spooked… No matter how light they looked, a swarm was bound to crush them.

In passing from behind them to before them, one brushed along Emet-Selch’s lower leg, on the outside of his robe. Even through the thick fabric, a tingling to herald numbness began spreading from where it touched.

If that was its _touch_ , Emet-Selch did not want to think what its rage would bring. Or, for that matter, what prolonged exposure to its strange gases meant for their minds.

“We’ll have to turn around,” Emet-Selch finally allowed. “Be careful not to touch them. They secrete something you don’t want to feel.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, but thanks, _that_ description definitely cements my aversion,” the Exarch muttered, leaning out of the way of the passing creature. Then, weakly, “But we’ve already gotten so far in this direction,” he about-faced even as he protested. 

“At least there is another direction to try,” Emet-Selch pointed out, turning around himself.

A mutter to his back, to haunt their future: “Great, now you’ve jinxed it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g'raha tia said [no thank u](https://i.imgur.com/YiieoAc.png) 2 the glo-stick squiggles
> 
> thank you again to [Jackaloping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackaloping) for the awesome art!!


	11. Chapter 11

“Where are the pools? We should have reached them by now.”

“How can you tell? You haven’t a watch.”

G’raha didn’t bother asking what a watch was. “I’ve a decent handle on time’s passage.” His energy levels and the strength behind the Tower’s corresponding demand that he _return, now, please_ assured it.

They hadn’t passed the little minnow-that-wasn’t, either. While he’d entertain the notion it might have moved, the pool it’d been sitting in shouldn’t have.

Instead, they walked in endless dark. Fortunately, suffusing light into his crystal arm was an extraordinarily simple, low-energy matter, or else they would have surely already tripped and impaled themselves on a sharp bit of rock.

In their trek through the tunnel, he didn’t remember there being any stretches of pure darkness, let alone one so long. At first he kept the thought to himself, as he didn’t want to speak the dismal truth of their situation into being. But then time passed, and time kept passing, and as the cave lost its humid heat in exchange for a chilly bite, it was undeniable: somehow, they’d gotten lost.

He said as much aloud.

To his great disappointment, Emet-Selch agreed.

“I don’t know how,” Emet-Selch said. “There had only been two directions we could walk.”

“Are we sure?”

“Yes. You did your little rhyme, left, and right, and center--” Emet-Selch cut himself off. “... No. There had been three directions?”

“That doesn’t sound right,” G’raha hazarded, “but I can’t really remember.”

“It wasn’t _that_ long ago.”

Oh, he was not going to be blamed for this. “You’re as confused as me.”

“I know,” Emet-Selch bit out, surprisingly and openly frustrated in a genuine fashion that wasn’t about mortal stupidity, “that’s the issue.”

So it was. G’raha relaxed. 

They kept walking.

The chill kept increasing. It crept on them, nipping at where his skin was open to the elements: his feet, his legs, his face and left arm.

“It had never been this cold,” he murmured into the quiet.

“Hadn’t it?”

No, it definitely hadn’t.

Except, what if it had?

Soon enough, his joints began to ache from the cold, and his breath puffed as white mist in front of his face. The sight of mist rang alarm bells in the back of his mind, though he couldn’t think of why.

He drew his hood over his head to better keep in some scant heat, and his robes tighter around himself. Then he noticed his ripped right sleeve, and spent a solid few seconds contemplating its state.

Finally he gave up puzzling it out himself and asked Emet-Selch, “Did we fight something?”

“No,” he was told. “But we fell.”

Huh. That was right.

They continued walking, his arm’s blue glow their only guide.

After another small stretch of quiet, he said, “We fell,” slowly, “from above,” because that made the most sense. They didn’t typically walk around caves. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel it to be a question in need of answering.

“Yes,” Emet-Selch said.

“And we were above here because we were searching for…”

Emet-Selch could not answer him.

That was just as well, G’raha thought foggily. They had more pressing matters than why they’d come to a cave. 

Such as, “... Why is it so cold?”

“We’re deep underground,” he was told, “it’s going to be cold.”

“It hadn’t been cold before.” This, he thought he knew for certain. Then his nose scrunched, and his brow furrowed, and he had to ask, “Did I say that already?”

Emet-Selch stopped. G’raha smacked right into his unfairly broad back, and stumbled a bit before righting himself.

“Why are we stopping?” That, more than anything else, made alarm rise high in his throat. “We can’t stop.”

Emet-Selch turned a critical gaze his way. He stood taller under it.

Emet-Selch asked, “Why can’t we stop? I sense nothing after us.”

“Because--” he began, and then stopped. 

Because. _Because._

Because what?

“... We can’t,” he finished, lamely; then, with more fervor because it was true, they couldn’t stop, “because if we do, we’re lost.”

“We’re obviously already very lost,” Emet-Selch returned, but by his quick glance to their surroundings and the tight clench to his jaw, he too felt the need to _move._ “Can you say with any certainty where we are, or where we’re going?”

He couldn’t.

The cold had its claws so very deep within him. His teeth chattered. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally grit out, “we need to keep going.”

That much was true. Emet-Selch hesitated a moment longer, then gave him a tight nod and continued walking.

Much to his displeasure, his feet began to drag. The light in his arm, easy though it was to maintain, wavered in and out. He tried to re-enforce it, but his efforts lasted no more than a moment or two before the light again dimmed.

Around them: darkness. Below them, too: darkness. It was as if they trekked through a void, not a…

“Underground,” the Exarch murmured, his voice small and distant to his own ears, “we’re underground. Aren’t we?”

“... Something’s wrong.”

“We’re stuck underground, of course something’s wrong,” he muttered between chattering teeth.

“Not our surroundings. _Us._ ” The admission seemed to cost Emet-Selch a great deal of energy, though G’raha couldn’t fathom why. “Something’s wrong with us.”

He grasped the idea, and-- found it slipping, almost instantly, like an eel between his grasp. 

Ah. So that was why it cost Emet-Selch such energy to say. That they were in peril was a suddenly strange notion: he was no longer so cold, after all, but actually rather warm, if a bit tingly. His teeth didn’t chatter.

“We just need a rest,” he proposed, all at once very sleepy.

“What happened to ‘we must keep moving?’”

Who said that? Whoever it was, was ridiculous. Laying down was the best thing to do, right then and there.

So great an idea was it, he tried to do it. But arms caught him and hauled him up before he could, unfairly keeping him upright when he very much wanted to be horizontal. The chest against his cheek was searingly hot. He protested the contact weakly, placing his hands against it and giving it a good shove. 

Maybe he didn’t push as hard as he thought he did, as nothing changed. In fact, the arms around him drew him in tighter.

“Do _not_ lay down,” he was told. The arms around him shook as if from exertion, though he knew himself not to be _that_ heavy.

“You’re very bossy,” he grumbled at his companion, sincere in his discomfort and disdain for being held vertical. “It gets annoying.”

“It’s keeping you alive right now, so you’re welcome.”

While he felt ‘keeping him alive’ was going a bit far, what he said was: “Still. You could be nicer about it.”

Fighting the hold took too much focus. He sagged against it, his thoughts thick and slow as sludge.

“Exarch, why did your light go out?”

“Hm?” 

“Your light. You extinguished it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. Open your eyes.”

“They are open.”

“And?”

…

Oh. 

It was pitch black, wasn’t it.

He frowned, and concentrated hard. The barest blue glow flickered into being in the palm of his hand. He held it up to admire, and also for Emet-Selch to see and thus stop complaining.

In its light, his breath was a white cloud.

It distracted him. He frowned at it, watching it disperse slowly into the dark. Another exhale, another puff. 

The cloud wasn’t the problem. It was the color. The color was off. It should’ve been green.

“Why isn’t it green?” he asked aloud.

Emet-Selch made a curious noise above him. By how his arms consistently shook and his body swayed, for all his complaining, he also wanted to lay down. Certainly, he wasn’t dragging them in any direction. For once, he was just holding G’raha to hold him.

No, that definitely wasn’t right. With great effort, G’raha forced his mind into forward motion. The cloud was supposed to be green. No, not a cloud. Mist. Green mist. They’d breathed in so much of it. Twelve above, his thoughts were as eels--

Again, eels. Why eels?

“The green,” he gasped, the realization striking him and he needed to say it, needed to get it out, needed to speak it into being, “that the-- the creatures gave off, we- breathed in so much, it’s--”

“Even minor exposure affects the psyche,” Emet-Selch added, two steps ahead and back on the right track. “We need to--”

“-- Clear the air.” G’raha finished, and heard Emet-Selch’s agreement in his sharp exhale, “except you can’t…” whyever that was, he knew it as much as he knew the eels were the problem, “you-- it’s fine, you can’t, I can.”

G’raha struggled to turn in his grip, his feet through a burst of adrenaline once more steady under him. Emet-Selch let him turn, though he kept his hands on G’raha’s shoulders. They were as brands, hot even through his robes, but that was good, that kept him focused beyond his mind’s tricks.

His light had gone out again. Or had it? He couldn’t trust his senses.

He couldn’t trust himself, but he could trust the Tower. It rarely faltered.

It didn’t here, either. When he reached for its power, it greeted him happily: it, unlike him, knew the make of his intent and so knew what to do. To clear the air, he needed some wind.

Aero burst from his hand in a rapid, violent spiral. It whipped through the cave with a howl, banishing the dark and punching a hole through the green mist that flooded in to take its place.

With the mist swept away, the eels covering the floor and walls and ceiling and _them_ fell. They writhed underfoot, knee-high in quantity and silent but for the fleshy sound of bodies hitting one another, and Twelve above, G’raha was going to be sick. 

“ _Move_ ,” Emet-Selch snarled into his ear, his own strength apparently returned with the shot of adrenaline. He gave G’raha’s shoulders a rough shake, but did not push -- which was good, as it took all of G’raha’s focus not to immediately fall flat on his face as he did as Emet-Selch bade him to, and ran through the pack.

The eels crushed as easily as wet paper underfoot. It was definitely a feeling fit for nightmares.

It was probably the only reason they made it out. He cast another aero when the mist began to rise again, and found even more eels falling upon their heads. 

As Emet-Selch had warned in what felt like ages ago, where they touched went numb. He could not feel any part of his body, though he could instruct his legs to step higher and his feet to run faster.

It took far, far too long until his sandals hit solid rock and not writhing eel. It took longer yet for him to feel comfortable without prepping their next steps with a gust of wind. Only when the glowing green veins in the rock thinned and finally disappeared did he stop, his heart in his throat, his skin numbed, and his exhausted lungs a malm or so behind them from how hard it was for him to catch his breath. He begged his arm to glow again to provide them something by which to see, and to his great relief, it readily did. 

To his equally great relief, the tunnel widened and gentled with high sloping walls and obvious boulders, which made finding a suitable rock to collapse upon much easier.

Emet-Selch sat heavily next to him, his elbows immediately set upon his knees and his upper body folded forward. Eventually, he buried his face in his hands. G’raha put his own hands behind him and tilted his head back, marveling vaguely as the numbness faded into a hot, prickling sensation that was definitely, definitely not preferable.

For a moment, the only noise between them was the sound of just-narrowly-escaped-death exhaustion.

Mentally chanting _ow, ow, ow_ as the prickling of feeling returning increased to an uncomfortable twinging, G’raha said, “Well. Congratulations to us for surviving.”

“This is absolutely terrible,” Emet-Selch replied, his voice muffled by his hands. “How do you all do it?”

That startled a laugh out of G’raha. It was a bit hysterical, maybe. “ _That_ is not on the average person’s daily docket. The Warrior of Light’s, maybe, but not anyone else’s.”

“No, not that. The... being at the complete mercy of your bodies. It’s a _terrible_ business.”

Oh. 

Hah!

Emet-Selch tilted his head so as to glare from his face’s place in his hands. “It isn’t funny.”

G’raha didn’t feel bad about his snickering, or make an overt effort to tone it down. “It definitely is. After all this time, all your complaining about our limited potential and mortality and… You’re barely a day into not instantly being able to use your magics, and you’re already overwhelmed.”

With a grumble and low growl, Emet-Selch buried his face back into his hands.

G’raha gave his bent back a consolatory pat. 

Who knew Emet-Selch was such a complainer? Actually, that wasn’t a surprise at all. 

He’d be fine.

From what he’d seen in the recreation of the Final Days, if the Doom didn’t take a person immediately, they weren’t likely to be turned. After they got back to the real Amaurot, the medics would look Emet-Selch over and maybe put his brush with the disease to good use. Whatever kept Emet-Selch from being turned could be repurposed, maybe. Or, if this whacky place truly was the disease’s origin, then they could focus their energies on containing it.

All they needed to do was get out.

G’raha gazed at the stone ceiling far overhead, his good, just-escaped-death humor draining out of him.

He could tell the direction the Tower sat in. With some space between them and the Lifestream-adjacent mako pools, he could likely teleport there. 

But he couldn’t bring a passenger, and he didn’t know how he’d return. Perhaps an Amaurotine could track him, as he’d been told Emet-Selch had done when Circe took him. But the chance they _couldn’t_ was there, too, and-- it wouldn’t be right, leaving Emet-Selch behind. Partially because of his promise to Hythlodaeus, yes, but moreover, because Emet-Selch really didn’t deserve to wander a dark cavern until his body collapsed. Even if Ascians had the tendency to be as cockroaches and have no trouble resurrecting themselves from death itself, there was no telling if Emet-Selch would walk away from the Doom under _that_ circumstance.

But… Though he didn’t need to eat or drink or sleep as much as he had before the Tower’s influence, he did feel his energy begin to wane at his absence from its halls. He’d absolutely be no use if he collapsed on Emet-Selch before they found the exit...

“I should thank you.”

G’raha reeled himself back to the present, and tilted one ear to his erstwhile companion.

When nothing more was forthcoming, he asked, sure he’d missed something said, “For what?”

“Twice now, I would be,” he took some time to pick out his words; he lifted his head from his hands, only to set his chin on a fist and direct his gaze away from G’raha, “if not dead, at least severely compromised, without your help.”

“Consider my debts paid, then,” he said easily, “even though I refuse to consider your first act as ‘saving my life.’”

A pause.

The moment became something serious, something weighty. The gratitude had been honest and sincere, and for that, it was rare indeed.

G’raha wasn’t sure what to do with it. He hesitated, keeping his own gaze on the ceiling and not the Ascian beside him.

After too long to be comfortable, Emet-Selch offered him a way out with a quiet, lightly mocking, “Still? Truly?”

Silently, G’raha corrected his characterization of the other: he spoke not mockingly, but companionably. 

The realization did not really comfort him, so G’raha took the offered escape from the situation’s precarious seriousness happily. He responded, his bright voice odd to his own ears, especially considering the topic, “Truly, and always.”

Emet-Selch heaved a sigh in response, but blessedly, did not challenge him.

In the ensuing, comfortable silence, he was left to wonder at how his own tone jarred him. Too soon, he realized: he felt younger. Much, much younger. 

A product of their escape, surely. 

He kept an idle eye on the direction they came from, but it remained dark. No glowing green to see.

At length, Emet-Selch said, “We’ll need to keep moving.”

“So we will,” G’raha agreed. “If the path has led significantly upwards, I could not tell.”

“Nor I.”

In unspoken agreement, they lingered a while longer.

**. . .**

“How did you spend your time between warmongering and Calamity-chasing, anyway?”

“... Are you asking if I had hobbies?”

With a short whuff of breath as the ledge caught him in the stomach, the Exarch heaved himself up to stand beside Emet-Selch. The ledge wasn’t very wide, and so they stood close, shoulder-to-chest. It was their third such vertical ledge on this particular cliff with at least two left to climb, which explained both Emet-Selch’s keen desire to take a seat and not move for a bit, as well as the Exarch’s growingly transparent impatience with their slow progress up. 

Emet-Selch eyed the next ledge they needed to reach. It sat just out of his reach, and far out of the Exarch’s.

Which meant he’d need to give the Exarch a hand up. Again.

While he calculated their next move, the Exarch busied himself with the very important job of joking about it. He said, his tone _far_ too cheery, “If you did, rock-climbing wasn’t one of them, hm?”

Emet-Selch considered nudging him off the ledge and down the thirty-some feet they’d scaled thus far. But then he’d be left without a light, and the cave would be filled with much complaining, and the other mortals would never quit their whining about losing their friend once he returned to Amaurot, and, overall, it would’ve made far more work than its instant gratification was worth. 

Still.

“I liked you better when you were afraid of me,” he informed the Exarch matter-of-factly. “We could return to that.”

“I’m sure.” The Exarch looked up, and came to the same conclusions as he. “Do you mind, oh fearful one?”

He did mind, but there was no helping it.

Putting one knee to the ground, he laced his hands together and braced himself. The Exarch clambered on, a foot in his hands and one hand on his shoulder. One quick boost upward later, and he swiftly scaled to the next ledge. 

Once there, he turned around and offered Emet-Selch a hand, which he took. His shoulder wasn’t happy with the strain in the least (and had split open anew on the last ledge, though the Exarch worked quickly to staunch its blood with makeshift bandages made from the scant cleaner sections of their robes). Unfortunately it, like he, had little choice in the matter.

If Emet-Selch had to guess, over half a day had passed since they woke underground. Perhaps longer, considering the unfortunate business with the ribbon creatures, but by the dry scratch in his throat and empty hole in his stomach that hadn’t yet turned into nausea, not too much longer. The wish to lay down and sleep was worse than usual, too, borne less of a desire to make the slow march of time pass faster and more of an actual, growing exhaustion. It was strange and terribly, terribly frustrating not to be able to wave away the needs. He wasn’t sure if the Exarch suffered the same weaknesses. If he did, he didn’t mention it.

Parts of the tunnel had widened and smoothed such that Emet-Selch suspected a massive animal to be its crafter, although any other sign of life was woefully lacking. 

The further they traveled from the mako pools, the quicker the temperature dropped. As _cold_ was the usual atmosphere for a cave, Emet-Selch wasn’t surprised. Unlike with the manufactured chill from the ribbon-creatures, it didn’t pervade to their bones: rather, it made a right nuisance of itself, nipping their ears, numbing their noses, and discouraging them from touching the rock around them any more than they absolutely had to lest the ground itself steal their warmth. Eventually it came to be that both of them walked with their hoods up. 

On their more boring stretches of walking, the Exarch compulsively summoned tongues of fire to dance between his hands. It drained him far more than turning his arm into a blue torchlight, though, and so mostly, they resigned themselves to trying to outpace the chill. In other words: they spent a lot of time walking, shivering, and walking while shivering.

Emet-Selch hated the cold. 

He really, truly did. He’d known he hated it before, but before, he could increase his internal body temperature without much worry, as long as he didn’t alarm others by warming himself so much his skin began to steam. Having to be surrounded by the cold and deal with the cold naturally was absurd. Not to mention that he was stuck in the largely hairless body of a Garlean! He should have made himself into a Hrothgar. That would have been _thinking ahead._

“I had hobbies,” he said once they both stood at the next ledge and began shuffling along it, as their next hand-hold was far too many feet to the right, “although there is scant little time for an Emperor to relax.”

“Name one, then.”

“Theater.”

The Exarch’s ears swiveled toward him, though the rest of him kept focused on not slipping off their precarious path. 

“ _Theater?_ ”

“Is that surprising?”

“A bit.” Pause. Shuffle. Shuffle. “A lot, actually. They have theater in Garlemald? I always imagined their attention drawn more toward… engineering, and… math, and the like.”

“There were plenty of those dedicated to the sciences, yes,” and in case the Exarch couldn’t see him, he made sure to pack in a verbal eye-roll, “but there was also a fine subset of artists who worked hard to give voice to their fears and frustrations regarding a menagerie of existential concerns.”

In truth, he was somewhat proud of that. To the shock of none, starving, destitute people had little taste for grand stage performances. Feed them, clothe them, house them, give them the luxury of time and space for contemplation, and those with a talent for artistry found themselves with a few centuries’ worth of pent-up anguish to write about. The literature tended toward depressing, but the plays were downright absurdist and, in truth, quite creative. Doubly so once the anti-war movement found shelter from police scrutiny under the satirical umbrella.

“They were very innovative in their magitek effects,” Emet-Selch recalled, though the Exarch hadn’t asked. “Including a few productions where the stage was _meant_ to catch fire, which -- while that trend was popular -- led to numerous situations wherein a venue was lost because neither the staff nor the audience were sure whether a particular flame-related crisis was part of the scene.”

“Huh. And yet, even among satellite states, the Empire wasn’t known for its out-pouring of entertainment.”

“Garlean stories are, and this may surprise you,” sarcastically, “extremely patriotic.”

The Exarch made an amused noise. “So they don’t translate well across borders.”

“For a variety of reasons,” obviously, “including their heavy reliance on cultural references specific to the region.”

Another moment of quiet passed. The next ledge to climb neared. It was one that they both could lever themselves up on without needing to help each other, although they’d need to go one at a time. 

As they reached it and paused for just a moment, the Exarch mused aloud, “Traditional works have more in common across nations than people think.”

He knew that -- history was as subtle and unpredictable as a pendulum over a well-lit, spike-filled pit -- and likely the Exarch, older than the average of his kind and scholar besides, also knew that, but Emet-Selch gave him the benefit of the doubt that he spoke so plainly. “Such as?”

“Songs, for one. The instruments and melodies vary according to the region, yes, and their exact words are unique to the people who pass them down generation to generation, but the morals and meanings… are all very similar.” The Exarch smoothed his hands absently down his sides, to brush off dust or stall or both. “It was something that really stood out to me on the First. People’s fears and frustrations, as you say-- the heart of the stories, they beat the same.”

“You like music?”

The Exarch shot him a curious, somewhat guarded look. “You sound surprised.”

He was. “You don’t show it.”

“Oh, and _you_ go around talking about theater all the time--”

“‘Solus zos Galvus was an avid patron of the arts, such that bards and bands from lands far and wide traveled to receive his eager audience, at times to include performance in such intimate settings as his private dining hall.’” The Exarch gave him a strange look. Emet-Selch merely raised his eyebrows in return. “That’s an excerpt from the most accurate biography about me. It was published a year after Solus’ first brush with ‘inevitable death’ from ‘advanced age.’”

Which had been a poisoning attempt, although the history books marked it as the first of two strokes. The second was the natural one that actually killed him. The first resulted in a quiet, fatal accident for the would-be poisoner, who had been a congressional member that he hadn’t remembered the name of before, during, or after her death. 

“You read your own… Of course.” The Exarch shook his head, then redirected his attention to the ledge above them. 

He stalled yet further from answering the music question by lifting himself to their next step. Emet-Selch followed, kindly keeping his mouth closed as he did so, because the last thing either of them needed was to take a neck-breaking tumble.

The second-to-last ledge proved to be as thin and precarious as Emet-Selch guessed. They shuffled along with their backs pressed to the wall, ducking and stepping over protruding rock as required. The Exarch had to stop once or twice to hold his arm out and give better light -- and verbal instruction -- on how Emet-Selch could best traverse a section that was far, far more suited to a being half his height. At every brush of his hands against something wet, slimy, or ominously sticky in a darker crevice, Emet-Selch thought with dread: they would be a _mess_ when they finally escaped this place. 

Upon reaching the surface, his first order of business would be a warm bath, then a warmer shower, and then a bath again, preferably with something sweet to eat and something else to lay his head on. Only once he was done with those important things would he submit himself to the Convocation for study. 

Much to his chagrin, the _sound_ remained at bay in his mind. It whispered to him about how simple escape from the cave would be with his magics, how easily he could grab the Exarch and teleport them back to the safety of an Amaurot restored. Amaurot, his gleaming, glowing city; Amaurot, his once and always home. How could he waste time _here_ with this _mortal_ when he could be _there?_

It would be so easy to teleport. So, so easy.

But such was an impulse now rooted in unnatural compulsion and coated in sickness. It demanded where his magics had comforted. It lied, where he knew the truth.

There would likely come a time he didn’t see it so clearly. Hopefully, the Convocation or medics would glean something useful from him before then.

He…

… Did not feel like considering that near future at the present moment.

Focusing on the one before him, he asked, “Can you perform, or do you limit yourself to studies of music?”

“I like to sing,” came the absent-minded reply; then, perhaps remembering who he spoke to, a hasty addition, “but not professionally, or even regularly.”

Amused and interested in equal measure, Emet-Selch said, “You can’t admit such a thing and think I would not ask to hear it.”

“Another time,” the Exarch grumbled.

“Yes, obviously. I wouldn’t want to lead whatever might live down here straight to us.”

The Exarch gave a nervous glance upward and downward, then -- as the void that yawned below was no pleasant thing to stare into -- jerked his head forward. 

“It seems most likely we are alone…”

“Most likely,” Emet-Selch agreed with faux cheer.

He got a huff of equally faux annoyance for his trouble. “Reassuring as ever, Emet-Selch, thank you.”

With an edge of curiosity, as his interest was well and truly caught, “I would not mock your singing, if that is what worries you.”

“There’s much that worries me, as it stands,” the Exarch replied stiffly, “but your reception of my singing is not one of them, because I doubt you will ever be an audience to it.”

“Is anyone?” Curiosity growing-- and, though it was perhaps low-hanging fruit, he could not help himself once the thought hit, “The Warrior of Light, perhaps?”

Immediately, the Exarch’s ears pinned and his foot, moving too fast, slipped. Emet-Selch readied to grab him, though it would probably doom them both to falling; fortunately, he did not. 

He did say, “No!” And, less accusatory than the Exarch surely meant it to be, “What made you think that?”

“You fawn over the woman like she hung the moon. That you took the time to serenade her balcony under its soft light seemed a fair assumption to make.”

“I don’t even know if she likes music,” he lamented.

“Everyone likes music,” Emet-Selch said, vaguely affronted on the Warrior of Light’s behalf, which was a new but unpleasant feeling for him to have.

“But she may not like-- the sort of music I sing.”

“What sort is that?”

He mumbled a word too low for Emet-Selch to hear. 

“What?” 

Another mumble. This time, he caught, “Folk songs, mostly. I could learn something else, perhaps...”

He acted far too shy for so plain an idea.

Exasperation rose fast in him. Was the Exarch truly soft on the woman? Was that the cause of his sudden, strange embarrassment? But, as far as Emet-Selch had observed, he hardly sought her out alone. What did he know of her beyond what he had read?

All of those questions went far beyond the scope of his investment in the Exarch and the Champion’s relationship. Thus, he neatly avoided asking them by offering his own, unsolicited, and purposefully dismissive advice:

“Sing her a Nymian hymn,” because it was the safest choice. Nym had truly _known_ music. Something about the difficult acoustics of a floating city had really inspired them to do their best. “She won’t understand or appreciate it, but no creature capable of hearing would turn away from one properly sung.”

“... I only know the one about the solstice. That wouldn’t be very appropriate, singing a praise to the dark of the night and a need for its speedy return, considering the development with the Lightwardens...”

That he knew any was a miracle, not to mention a pleasant surprise. Emet-Selch promptly forgot both the song’s intended beneficiary and the implied _thanks to you_ cut in the comment about Lightwardens. 

“Who taught you Nymian hymns?”

“The Studium had a fine archive of ancient orchestrions. And, as I said,” ah, and there was his embarrassment, back in full force; only this time, its source was clearly his own interest in the matter, “I have an interest in traditional songs, so… I picked up a few.”

“A few,” Emet-Selch echoed disbelievingly. “For fun.”

Defensively, “Yes. What of it?”

“It’s admirable, and impressive besides.”

Silence, save the dusty scuffle of their slow trek forward. 

For once, Emet-Selch did not know what to make of it, and wished he did.

“I thought you said you would not mock me on this,” the Exarch finally said, tone low and unhappy.

Emet-Selch scoffed.

When the Exarch did not continue, Emet-Selch realized belatedly: _oh._ He really thought he was being mocked.

“And I don’t. I meant that sincerely,” Emet-Selch said, a bit miffed himself at the Exarch’s assumption, though it was... maybe, a little, deserved. He did spend a great deal of energy in detailing the mortals’ general failings. It was often the only way they came to understand their weaknesses and areas to improve. _Fine,_ so he needed to be even more blunt: “Nym had excellent music, especially for their seasonal festivals and rallying war chants. It was a shame most were lost after the plague.” 

“It is curious that for such an advanced city, their manuscripts were largely lost,” the Exarch allowed tersely, apparently still recovering from the perceived slights regarding his hobby.

“If I recall correctly, their spite toward their enemies dictated a need for secrecy at any cost.” A good tactic in the moment, a terrible tactic for legacy purposes. “And, unfortunately, tonberries can’t hold a tune worth a damn.”

“What do tonberries have to do with it?” With honest bafflement, as if Emet-Selch was being intentionally obtuse for bringing up Nym’s enduring residents.

“If not for their affliction, oral traditions might have offered their histories a chance to be remembered.” Silence. Emet-Selch puzzled at its cause, then realized: “Did you not know the nature of the plague? It didn’t simply kill the residents, it transformed them.” 

All as an unfortunate side effect of the Thirteenth’s voidsent, but not knowing that was quite excusable. He only knew because Lahabrea’s then-vessel had experienced something similar upon its narrow escape from a stray Voidsent, and it had been the only thing he complained about for an unreasonably long amount of time. For a being that routinely and carelessly hopped bodies, he had an inexplicable distaste for anything with tentacles.

Silence still, which confirmed the Exarch’s damning answer on the simpler matter of the plague’s affect. 

Amusement overtook Emet-Selch, such that he couldn’t help needling: “What, did you think the tonberries flew themselves up to the city’s gates? They barely have arms, let alone wings. Not to mention their horrendous sense of direction! I’m sure they’d as soon have flown themselves into the ocean and drowned as found their way home.”

“... You,” the Exarch said, slowly, “would be a historian’s best friend.”

“Rather,” and here, he spoke from countless experiences, both in the professional business of intentional recruitment and as personal experiments with a new civilization’s ability to learn from past mistakes, “their worst enemy. True accounts are rarely what they want to hear.”

The Exarch made a short, deep sound of unhappy but intimate understanding. Perhaps he was reminded of the First’s Warrior of Light’s fate, or merely his own, in arriving to the Shard as a confused traveler and rising rapidly to esteemed Exarch.

Finally, their careful shuffling was at a near end. The dark of a larger opening around a bend loomed, its crags outlined by dim blue from the Exarch’s glow. 

When they reached it, the Exarch increased the strength of the light in his hand and raised it high to better illuminate their way.

It quickly became apparent why their last stretch of wall had been so damp and slimy. Although where they stood was wide and dry, no more than three yalms past its lip was a shallow spring, with water sliding down the walls in smooth, reflective sheets. The water fed into a downward-running creek that sloped gently for some distance, but by the far-off sound of rushing rapids, it held an unpleasant end for any careless adventurers who rushed its trek.

Down was not the direction they wanted to go. Wet was also not a promising state to be in, considering the air’s chill. Turning around also boded ill, both for the distance to their starting point and the hostile creatures that awaited them.

“Fantastic,” Emet-Selch said, breaking their silence and finding himself suddenly, abruptly, _exhausted._

His feet hurt from walking. His back and arms ached from the constant climbing and ducking. His shoulder’s wound felt like it split open again twice over. His body needed food and sleep and, most of all, water, except not _this_ water, primarily because yes, he was feeling very, very spiteful about it making their path forward so much more difficult.

“Quite,” the Exarch agreed, quietly.

Slowly he moved forward, until he crouched by the spring’s edge. After a moment, he changed his mind and took a full seat, hugging his legs to his chest with his left arm as he reached into the pool with the other. Bringing a palmful to his mouth, he took a sip. After a moment, wherein he didn’t either immediately spit it out or have his jaw dissolved off his face, he gestured for Emet-Selch to join him.

Dislike for the spring’s entire existence filled every inch of him, but he couldn’t deny a drink would be nice for his parched throat.

He took his seat next to the Exarch, grumbling his hatred for the spring, the cave, and the inadequacies of corporeal bodies all the way; but still, he drank.

**. . .**

“There is a counterpart to the solstice piece, meant to be played during the winter, that praises the sun…” 

“How’s it go?”

“It goes,” and he warbled out a chord of it.

G’raha smothered a laugh into his elbow.

“-- Yes?” The warbling stopped. “Do you have feedback for me, master maestro?”

“That was… singularly terrible.”

“I never claimed to be _good._ ”

“Fair enough, you hadn’t, but to be honest, I don’t even know if that qualified as ‘bad.’”

A mock-offended sniff. “I owed you no more than you asked for.” 

Despite its surface annoyance, Emet-Selch’s tone was warm underneath.

If only anything else about the situation had warmed up. Even as he pulled his robes tighter around himself, he shivered. A golden-lined hood, although helpful in keeping his face hidden and also fairly stylish if he did say so himself, was not conducive to retaining body heat. He should’ve had laces sewn through the front. As his nose threatened to fall off his face if he didn’t improve the situation, a string to pull and hide behind would’ve been very helpful. 

All this misery, and he didn’t even have a grudge against the cold like Emet-Selch. Or at least, he _hadn’t_ \-- he was definitely starting to develop one.

They’d sat down to wet their throats and, for lack of alternatives, fill their stomachs with water. When it came time to stand up again, they discovered the ground to not be as uncomfortable as generally advertised, and that moreover, once they began their trek forward, they likely wouldn’t have the luxury of sitting around again lest they risk freezing off worse than a nose or tail. So they had, in unspoken agreement, retired to their landing’s driest corner, propped themselves against the straightest wall-- which meant a rock jabbed G’raha unhappily between the shoulder blades-- and took a moment to collect their strength as they thought through their next steps. 

To best regain (or, more like, _maintain_ ) his energy, G’raha had extinguished his arm’s glow. The resulting darkness was so absolute, he closed his eyes against it. 

As could have been predicted: by the Tower’s heavy pull upon his limbs, they’d lingered longer than they’d meant to. Unfortunately, per the soreness in his feet and aching in his knees, it was more difficult to get up than sit down.

Another shiver. He drew his knees in tighter against his chest to no avail, his calves aching from holding the pose so long in the chill. His fingers, half-numb, shook from where they held closed the bottom of his hood and top of his robes. A bit more of the air’s still coldness eked in. 

Predictably, he shivered again.

“What of moogles?”

G’raha stuck his fingers back under his tightly-folded arms before he could process the conversation’s latest strange turn. The crystal hand felt like a block of ice against his ribcage. Sadly, his flesh one didn’t fare much better.

He pondered at the meaning, but could not fathom it. So, finally, he asked, somewhat cautiously, “... Moogles?”

“Yes, you know. Moogles. The kupo-creatures.”

Kupo-creatures? Eloquent. 

“I know what a moogle is. I don’t-- what about moogles?”

“Did you ever learn from them?”

As his arms had frozen from his fingers, he pulled his hands out to blow on them in a feeble attempt to warm up. It didn’t work. In fact, it somehow just made his shivering worse.

Aloud, he said, “I’m not following your logic. What would I learn from a moogle?”

“Everything they produce manages to be, against all hope, catchy. It’s a fine talent to have.” A beat. “But I suppose they’ve become quite the recluses in recent years. You can blame their fifth King for that-- or was it their eighth?”

“ _Moogles._ ”

“Yes, moogles.” Exasperated. “As I said. Did your ears freeze and fall off?”

“Just about,” he muttered, and contemplated sticking his fingers into his mouth. Maybe they’d warm up then.

As that thought conjured images of his tongue sticking to his crystal fingers and turning blue as well, he put them back under his arms. 

It still felt like he was hugging ice on the crystal side. Where crystal met skin, the skin felt too-hot and maddeningly itchy in a manner that signaled frostbite if not eventual hypothermia. As the flesh hand was tucked under the crystal arm, and his chest was more crystal than not-- both explained the problem and stole away chances for a solution. Great.

They needed to keep moving. They’d been sitting still far too long. 

Yet when he thought about how they’d either need to make an extremely long trek back to the mako pools or gamble with taking a dip into ice-cold water, moving seemed much worse than their current, blessedly dry, chill.

While he wallowed between their unpleasant choices, Emet-Selch lapsed into silence. G’raha realized he had only once Emet-Selch said, “Must you continue to chatter?”

“Huh?” 

“Your teeth. It’s very loud.” 

“Oh.” 

In realization and answer, G’raha quit attempting to suppress his shivering and let his teeth chatter louder. 

Emet-Selch blew out an annoyed breath.

G’raha felt a bit better. 

Still shivered incessantly, though. Twelve above, had it gotten colder? How had it gotten colder?

Emet-Selch sighed, “Very well. Come here.”

That request made no sense, so G’raha ignored it. Instead, he continued right on with his business of convincing himself that he was having a lot more fun sitting in the cold, dry dark than he would making a precarious ice-raft for the creek and careening into the cold, wet dark. Except, as always, Emet-Selch couldn’t keep to his own business and simply _had_ to butt into G’raha’s. 

Emet-Selch scooted closer to him, putting them side-to-side. G’raha made an absently curious noise, but continued to fixate on solving their stuck-in-a-cave problem.

Hands settled onto his shoulders with eerie accuracy for moving blindly. He upgraded his curious noise into an alarmed one, and then further up into an indignant _hey!_ when Emet-Selch lifted him bodily and dragged him over his legs and into his lap. Immediately, ire over being so easily manhandled rose in him. He might’ve been short in comparison to a Garlean, but he wasn’t the lightest when it came to miqo’te! _Moreover_ , Emet-Selch _really_ needed to quit grabbing before asking.

Instantly he pushed at Emet-Selch’s chest to get away, but found his arms swiftly caught and, in a move he didn’t entirely follow, twisted as to wrap around and effectively box himself into immobilization. At least he still had his legs. Those, at least, he could kick out with.

When he struck what he thought was a lower leg, he got a pained hiss and a, “Quit struggling,” with Emet-Selch’s voice far, far too close and far, far too grouchy for the person that wasn’t currently being manhandled.

“Let go, and I will,” he snapped back, annoyed near beyond words. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Warming you up,” was the reply, Emet-Selch’s tone tipping into exasperation as if he had _any_ right to it, “which I see now was the right choice, as you feel one gallon of water away from turning into an icicle.”

The arms around his wouldn’t budge no matter how he strained. Eventually he tired out -- faster than he would’ve liked, his adrenaline waning fast under growing exhaustion and the numb stiffness in his limbs -- and stopped, putting his focus instead to verbal protest.

“Let _go_ ,” he repeated, and scarcely bit back a threat to teleport to the Tower and leave Emet-Selch here alone, as he should’ve in the first place.

Something about the restraint closed up his throat and put a hint of true discomfort under his irritation. He hoped Emet-Selch didn’t notice.

For a moment, Emet-Selch didn’t respond. 

But then, his grip on G’raha loosened. G’raha wrenched back control of his arms, and leaned forward, away from Emet-Selch.

His breath came faster, though it truly hadn’t been that much of a struggle. As he struggled to put it back to rights, he thought on that. He reached an answer he didn’t like, and diverted himself with the rationale that he just didn’t like being surprised. Especially not by this particular Ascian. Especially not as the Exarch of the Crystal Tower.

So, he told Emet-Selch as much. 

“Where words suffice, there is no need to waste action.” He held himself stiffly, hands clutched in his robes to re-seal them from the cold. “I’m not some... dumb animal... incapable of understanding anything. You don’t have to yank me around.”

“I know,” Emet-Selch said back, just as stiff in voice, and then, “I apologize.”

The next half of his rant stumbled to a sudden, confused halt.

“-- You-” He whipped his head around, although he couldn’t actually see anything in the cave’s black. “-do?”

Dark or not, the scowl on Emet-Selch’s face was quite loud.

“Yes. I apologize.” The slightest pause, as Emet-Selch -- perhaps painfully -- unbent himself from his high horse. “I did not intend to imply as much. I only meant to rid you of the chill.”

“You should’ve asked,” G’raha emphasized, as little else came to mind to say.

“Clearly,” was the low reply, as if he had his head turned away.

Shock and discomfort fading, G’raha sat there a moment. From the extra layers of cloth between him and the ground, he was yet between Emet-Selch’s legs. Brief though the contact had been before he’d torn himself away, it had been warmer together. Basic logic supported the notion. 

If he focused on the basic logic of it, he wouldn’t think of the dozen reasons he should really move back to his spot, alone.

“... If you’d asked,” he said, slowly, “I would’ve taken you up on it.”

Maybe. Probably not. In all other situations, it was a weird thing to ask. From an Ascian, it was borderline concerning. But Emet-Selch didn’t need to know that, and anyway, now that they were here, it felt silly to return to separate corners to shiver alone and apart.

Emet-Selch was quiet.

G’raha theorized that the apology had used up his daily allowance for politeness and manners. Whatever the reason, G’raha saved him from overextending himself, because-- it was cold, and the silence was off-putting, and also it was really, _really_ cold.

He shifted backwards until his back hit an unfairly broad chest. In an effort to banish the awkwardness abruptly threatening to overtake him, he took great care and time in drawing his knees up to his own chest and wrapping his arms around them, then all but hiding his head into them. 

Still, Emet-Selch said nothing. 

G’raha kind of wished he would. An Emet-Selch that was running his mouth was at least an accounted-for Emet-Selch. What was he doing back there? _Nothing_ , from what G’raha could feel and hear--

Arms settled, light, over his shoulders. “This is a bit pointless if you ball up like that,” Emet-Selch said, voice quiet. “Lean back. Face me more.”

It wasn’t really a question, but he tugged lightly on G’raha’s shoulders rather than anything unavoidably forceful, so… It was an improvement. Slowly, G’raha did as bade: uncurled, unclenched his hands from his elbows, and leaned back.

While he did, he asked, half-joking and half-desperate for a distraction from the awkward, “Is this some Garlean technique for the long winters?”

“No,” drawled the reply, which was closer to the normal Emet-Selch, “that involves either snow on hot coals or crawling into a yeti’s disemboweled stomach. As we’re fresh out of coals and yetis, we must make due with our common sense.”

It took a bit, but once they were again chest-to-back and Emet-Selch’s arms had looped over his shoulders, his legs snug on either side of G’raha’s, warmth gathered between them and it was, as logic dictated, better. With some buffer between him and rock, and his crystal arm from his flesh, the cold didn’t bite as much. His shivers lessened; his teeth stopped needing to chatter.

It was instinct to turn into heat, and so as the improvements came, he felt more willing to follow through to the natural conclusion. Soon enough he had turned and curled slightly, his legs drawn up while Emet-Selch’s bracketed his hips, both of them covering their feet with the spare dusty but heavy fabric of their robes. The arms around his shoulders tightened, and hands ducked to warm themselves quickly under his knees. He pressed his cheek -- through his hood, the golden lace of which no longer felt so frigid -- to the undeniably warm chest behind him. Better yet, when Emet-Selch put his head atop G’raha’s, he soon found he could again feel the tips of his ears.

It should’ve stayed awkward. It really, really should’ve. The only saving grace was that they couldn’t see each other.

But as shared body heat became warmth collected and suffused through cold limbs, his mind lost its hold on the thought that _this is awkward!_ Instead, it was just as it was: nice, insofar as anything since falling through the sinkhole had been nice. 

It was a reprieve. No monsters trying to eat them or put them under a mind-spell, no disgusting, pus-filled boils to burn off, no cliffs to climb. No need to think, no need to plan, because the options were the same once they started moving again. Definitely no need to look respectable, as Emet-Selch wasn’t ever impressed and anyway, they were both in this compromising position together. 

Slight, very slight, he heard it, muffled through thick cloth though it was: a slow and steady heart beat. As it turned out, it beat the same as anyone else’s.

A murmur above and beneath his ears, “Your crystal half might as well have been ice, no water required.”

“Perk of the job,” he joked weakly. “The arm’s always room temperature, no matter the room.”

A hum, from low in his throat.

G’raha relaxed without realizing it. He flexed the crystal hand where it had balled up in Emet-Selch’s sleeve. It seemed warmer, now. At least, the matching stretches of blue on his chest, neck and back were warmer. Face, too.

Much nicer.

“You said once… You knew a way to regulate the power flow between the Tower and me. So as to halt, or at least slow, its spread.” Emet-Selch didn’t immediately reply. G’raha forged on. “Would it allow me to venture out for longer without keeling over, too?”

Quietly, “Most likely.”

“Not ‘definitely, yes?’”

“As I’ve doubtlessly made you aware,” with a very, very quiet hint of very exasperated amusement, “your condition is fairly unique. We could hypothesize day in and day out, but that doesn’t mean any of our guesses would survive reality.”

That was true. Suspicion duly mollified, G’raha continued, “Then, perhaps we could put a few of them to the test. Once we’ve returned to Amaurot and you’ve been cured, obviously.” 

A beat. Again, no immediate reply. 

He thus added, “So. Soonish.”

The pause stretched unusually long following the proposition that G’raha thought Emet-Selch would leap at. He’d been keen to gain access to the Tower and its secrets for so long. Yet now that G’raha was all but opening the door for him, he fell silent.

Was he concerned he wouldn’t be cured? That seemed unlikely. The longer they’d walked without Emet-Selch turning into a horrifying Doom-monster, the more it appeared his infection was similar to the Akadaemia student: terrifying but temporary. A snapshot into what was to come.

Before he could grow _too_ worried about what the silence might mean, Emet-Selch grasped G’raha’s crystal hand with one of his own and gave it, by the hum of pressure, a brief squeeze. He then returned his arms around him and shifted minutely, settling more comfortably in their generally uncomfortable, rocky place. 

As he did, he said, “Yes. That sounds doable. Pending that Thancred doesn’t take my hands off for daring to touch you.”

G’raha snorted, surprised into his own light amusement, though it was twinged with fondness. “He is a bit protective.”

“He dealt with Lahabrea at the height of his folly,” Emet-Selch muttered, “so I understand the impulse.”

“Did you not get along with your,” G’raha struggled for the right word and settled on, “fellows?”

“There is such a thing as knowing another too long and too well,” was all Emet-Selch said. G’raha couldn’t read the emotion purely by his voice, but if pressed, would call it wistful. “Many times, we had need of Zodiark’s guidance if only to keep ourselves from smothering each other in the night after _someone_ made a particularly short-sighted decision.”

“That someone was never you, of course.”

A short breath ruffled the top of G’raha’s hood. “It’s good to hear you’re finally catching on.” 

His amusement was, by then, blatant.

From there, they lapsed back into a comfortable silence. 

Warmed and cradled -- for lack of a better term, _of course_ \-- his eyelids grew heavy. He leaned more fully on Emet-Selch and focused, again, on the slow heartbeat that matched his own. Though he valiantly fought to keep his eyes open, he thought, _does it even matter?_ , decided _no, it really doesn’t_ , and surrendered, letting them drift close.

He also might’ve smothered a yawn into someone’s shoulder. By the quiet, vaguely-amused _tsk_ from above him, the someone didn’t mind that much.

“We can’t stay here forever,” the someone told him, but did not continue with, _so, get up, before you drool onto my robes, because you are prone to drooling in your sleep and it’s very disgusting,_ which was true but not something the someone had cause to know.

“I know, I know,” he replied. Mumbled, really. After all the involuntary teeth-chattering, his jaw was done moving. That was fine.

“Exarch,” he was warned. “It’d be better if we moved sooner than later.”

“Soon, yes,” he promised, and promptly dozed off.

**. . .**

When G’raha next awoke to a gentle pressure upon his shoulder, he opened his eyes to the dim outline of Emet-Selch’s sleeve and, beyond it, a boring, fuzzy-grey-looking rock wall. 

Someone must have shoved cotton in his mouth while he slept, because it was awfully dry. His head had the blurred feeling of a nice nap interrupted. His first impulse was to swat the pressure from his shoulder, closely followed by his second impulse to roll over, burrow into the softer-than-rock thing beneath him, and return to sleep. His third and final: _hold on, I can see?_

Exhaustion fogged the edges of his mind-- he must have been out for at least a bell-- and yet he did his best to _wake up_. Blinking rapidly, eyes straining, he struggled to sit straighter, ignoring how his hip ached from taking all his weight for a bell-or-more. Emet-Selch, the culprit for the pressure, did not remove his hand, but kept his grasp light.

“What’s happening? What’d I-- what did I miss?” He asked, because wow, he’d really been lost to the world. Adventuring through caves took more energy than he’d thought.

“Nothing in our immediate vicinity,” Emet-Selch replied, his voice low, “but I would hazard a guess something has arrived just beyond the river’s drop off.”

“Right,” G’raha said, if only to ground himself back in the present. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” 

“At least the light isn’t green,” Emet-Selch replied, with the tone, _it might as well be. This is definitely going to be a bad thing._

The cynicism was a bit deserved. The cave had thus far not been too friendly. 

Not liking how long it took him to wake up, G’raha shook his head. When that failed to clear the sleep-fog, he gave his cheeks a little pull and dragged a rough hand over his face.

As that helped a bit, he stood. Emet-Selch let his hand drop from his shoulder, and stood up after him. G’raha resolutely ignored how quickly the other’s warmth disappeared into the air, and how much he immediately desired to return to where they had been. It struck him that the other must have stayed awake to notice such a dim glow. He wondered if it was from an inability to sleep --- unlikely, considering everything else he knew about his freestyle napping habits - or a kinder impulse. It would’ve been singularly stupid to leave themselves open to an attack by both falling asleep. Too bad G’raha didn’t have that thought until after he’d woken up.

Whatever the cause, it worked out.

Something in Emet-Selch’s back or knees or both popped as he stood. G’raha kindly withheld a comment about giving away their position if he was so worried about the new, possibly glowing thing.

Sure enough, the creek’s distant drop-off was clearly outlined with a pale grey glow. It really highlighted how far they had to walk through the shallow, slippery waters before even reaching that. It also confirmed something new was down there. 

G’raha observed it for a moment, and made an executive decision. “I’m going to send a light down. See if it scares up anything in response.”

“On both our heads be it,” Emet-Selch muttered, which from him wasn’t a _no._

Reaching for fire from the energies around them, it leapt to his hand and nearly blinded him. Squinting against its small, harsh glow, he focused himself and then sent it sailing forward, hand outstretched with its passage. It breezed over the creek, illuminating every rock, nook and cranny as it went; then dropped, with a downward jerk of his hand, down the hole in the floor that served to turn the placid creek into a tiny waterfall.

Emet-Selch and he watched its glow descend in silence. He blinked away the ache from his eyes as its light faded.

For a time: nothing. He felt half-relief, half-disappointment. 

He exhaled slow and measured, and thought to quench his hold on the fire, wherever it went. Likely it’d run into the water and extinguished itself, but he didn’t like taking chances.

Then, as typical after a stretch of nothing: something.

A noise, and not the distant rush of far-off rapids or a cave-dweller disturbed by fire in its home. A noise followed by other noises followed by many noises, growing closer. 

At first it was difficult to make out, but when G’raha tore back his hood to properly angle his ears and _listen_ , he heard it: voices. 

Recognizable voices. Alisaie, definitely, and Thancred, too, though both of them definitely hadn’t been there when they’d fallen through. Their voices echoed through the cavern. Their voices quickly grew louder. They’d seen his fire, and correctly guessed it from a person, likely to be the only person traversing around these caverns.

“Exarch?” They called. “Is that you? Are you here?”

Within a blink, G’raha had his arm lit _bright_ and lofted high, ignoring how it made his eyes water. Maybe they couldn’t see it around the drop off’s bend, but -- he yelled back, his free hand cupped around his mouth, the dry itch in his throat a trifling inconvenience, “Yes! Up here! You’ve found us!”

By the responding cacophony of excited noise, they heard him and, what was more, they were devising a way up. The dim grey light at the cliff’s edge brightened, strengthening into the white of what must have been an Amaurotine’s electric lamp.

“... Admirable.” Emet-Selch spoke from a hair’s breadth behind him, his presence warm at his back. “No matter the odds, they really won’t give up on you.”

“Historians wrote about their tenacity, and for once, were accurate to a fault,” he replied, his happiness over hearing their voices catching on everything else.

“Or, more likely, they value you a great deal, and don’t want to lose you.” Emet-Selch offered the statement plainly, with an edge of -- if G’raha were forced to name it, though it felt too tremulous to do so without risking being wrong -- wistful admiration. “In that, they make for fine friends.”

As the last part was entirely true, G’raha couldn’t help but agree.

**. . .**

“It’s been a day and a half since you fell through that sinkhole… Are you sure you don’t need more to eat?”

“Really, Ryne, this is plenty to start with, thank you.”

“You made us really worried, you know!”

“I’m very sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be-- … Just. Take it easy on the disappearing acts for a bit, please.”

“What Alisaie means to say is, Fandaniel said she’s happy to hear you two are safe, and that she’s wrapping up a meeting but she’ll be here to ferry us back to the Tower as soon as possible afterwards.”

“I said what I meant to say, Alphinaud.”

“You meant to nag…?”

“I’ll show you a nag--”

“Prithee, watch the stew.”

“Yeah, it took ages to set up _and_ it turned out halfway decent. I’d like to keep the leftovers without having to pick it out of the dirt and grass.”

Bemused, Ryne watched as Alisaie helpfully took her over-exaggerated attack on Alphinaud away from Urianger, Thancred and the stew pot set precariously above its very fragile, hardwon fire. Dust kicked up in their scuffling, turning their already covered pant legs and boots even redder. To be fair, without access to a decent water source without an Amaurotine to summon one up, all of them were fairly covered in dust. Their hastily made camp at the cave’s mouth was more bedroll and open sky than a real place of operations, but as the desert they resided in played host to little beyond sparse, dry roughage and the occasional fearful lizard, it had served them well enough.

To her left, the Exarch said quietly, “It’s good to see you all are doing well.”

Ryne wondered how rude it would be to point out that compared to him and Emet-Selch, they were fit for entrance to Eulmore’s velvet dance halls. For they might have been dusty and overall tired, but at least they weren’t visibly bruised, filthy, and -- in Emet-Selch’s case -- scorched across the shoulder. By their hunch under the blankets they’d loaned to the two to help them warm up and the corresponding exhaustion written in their body’s every line, it was a testament to their strength and stubbornness that they weren’t simply keeling over.

“We were not the ones trapped malms underground,” Urianger returned, with the flat edge to his deep voice that meant he was teasing, even if he didn’t really sound it.

“But you did have to search for us through tunnels unknown.”

“Don’t sweat it. We only ran into one giant sandworm,” Thancred said.

Alarm crossed the Exarch’s face. He would definitely be sweating it. “-- It didn’t give you trouble?”

Thancred gave him a cocky look that was, most likely, largely for the Exarch’s benefit. “Nah. Compared to our usual, it was practically a walk in the park.”

“That explains the tunnels,” Emet-Selch mused absently. He had eyes for the Exarch’s half-full bowl of stew, though he hadn’t actually said anything about it. If he wasn’t who he was-- that was, an Ascian who, as far as she knew, never really needed to or wanted to eat-, Ryne would think he wanted some.

Y’shtola, standing a bit away from the group, noted, “Although we only ran into one and while a day trip back the way you came isn’t _too_ long, it’d be best if we had an easier path to the pools.”

“The pools had more of an impact on Creation magic than simple conjury. With the two of us, creating our own path might not prove too difficult.”

Her lips quirked up at the edges. “I’ll admit my conjury has grown rather rusty.”

“Ah…”

“Which makes this a fine opportunity for some practice.”

The Exarch visibly perked up. He nodded, then, possibly to drown his embarrassment, returned to all but inhaling his food. He was on his second bowl and going strong.

For good cause. As they all knew, a lot could happen in a day and a half. The Exarch told them of the mako pools and the strange creatures which shouldn’t have existed, but obviously did. He then theorized that the secret to understanding the Doom’s spread lay in unraveling the overt leak of the Star’s aetherial energies into their physical world. Emet-Selch had eyed the Exarch so strangely by the end of his recounting that Alisaie had remarked on it. When he’d simply shrugged off her question, Y’shtola followed up a more to-the-point, _Well? What do you think about it, then?_

He’d agreed that there was some merit to the idea. Then he went on to add that if one area of the Lifestream was contaminated, especially one manifesting so close to the surface, then it was likely that the Star’s entire core was already lost. 

That wasn’t as surprising to hear as it should’ve been. While Emet-Selch seemed to think the Doom spread as fast as the Flood, to Ryne, it made more sense that something acting like rot and decay on a planet-wide scale took time to fester.

More peculiar and more presently: for someone ever fastidious about his appearance, it was odd Emet-Selch remained so disheveled even after exiting the cave. She understood the Lifestream’s close connection to mako made magics volatile, but surely they were far enough away on the surface. Y’shtola had no trouble casting fire on their scavenged brush to get their stew cooking.

Half a bell later, and he still looked a mess.

He also wouldn’t stop staring at the Exarch’s food.

Despite being half-sure she was misinterpreting what she saw, Ryne thought it best to offer him some too. Just as she thought to do so, the Exarch had taken enough edge off his own hunger to notice the staring, too. He took pause, his eyes flitting curiously between Emet-Selch’s gaze and the bowl. 

Away from the fire, Alphinaud broke free of his sister’s headlock by attacking her surprisingly ticklish sides. Y’shtola called out pointers for Alisaie to get back at him, which she most likely couldn’t hear over her own indignant laugh-yelping. Similarly, Thancred mused aloud on the effectiveness of Alphinaud’s tactics in general skirmishes-- joking, clearly, which was a far sight better to last few hours, when he’d gotten so tense over the missing Exarch that he hadn’t joked even a bit-- while Urianger played along in taking him seriously.

In other words, except for Ryne, none of them paid attention to the recovered and recovering pair in their midst. 

Wordlessly, the Exarch dropped his spoon into the bowl and offered it to Emet-Selch.

After a visible pause, Emet-Selch accepted it. 

“I know how to ask for my own food,” he said to the Exarch as he did so, without the edge that Ryne expected to hear.

“Only as long as it’s with your eyes and not your words, evidently,” the Exarch huffed back, “which I’m now realizing is a bit of a theme when you want something.”

“I’ll admit, being told I talk too little is a first for me.”

“I’d imagine. Unfortunately it will have to remain an unknown, as I’d never dare imply such a thing.”

Emet-Selch scoffed, but with -- as Ryne looked for it and allowed herself to name it -- clear amusement, and maybe even a bit of endearment. As if to disprove the Exarch’s point in even the smallest way, he set to polishing off his newly acquired food without further ado.

It was gone in a flash. So fast, Ryne half-expected him to start choking.

Once his spoon scraped the bottom, he frowned in obvious disappointment. Then glanced up, as if at least sensing some gaze other than the Exarch’s on him, and caught her looking. Before she could pretend she hadn’t been staring -- though that thought occurred to her far too late to effectively pull off -- he raised his eyebrows at her and tilted the bowl toward her.

“Is there any more?” He asked. Very politely, for him.

She stared, nonplussed.

The Exarch straightened lightning-fast. He snapped back immediately, “As if you can’t serve yourself? I hadn’t thought your legs fell off on our journey back to the surface, but I must have simply missed it.”

Emet-Selch’s eyebrows drew back down into his usual, unhappy expression, but one corner of his mouth twitched up.

The Exarch saw the twitch, and rolled his eyes. 

“You’re insufferable,” the Exarch informed him. 

“You’re far too easy to rile,” Emet-Selch replied.

Ryne wondered if perhaps she’d missed something. One and a half days was long enough to become startlingly close, too, apparently.

In any case, one half-shrug later, and Emet-Selch got up to serve himself. That drew the others' attention back to them. Ryne saw the same observation and question she had reflected on Y’shtola and Urianger’s faces. Not about the Exarch and Emet-Selch’s interactions, but Emet-Selch’s poor state and sudden taste for their food.

As Emet-Selch ignored their open curiosity and indeed filled his bowl to the top, Urianger was the first to breach the topic.

“Has thee sought for a newfound appreciation of the mortal form?” 

“I find nothing therein to appreciate,” Emet-Selch replied, icy in his disinterested placidity. Gone was the warmth Ryne had witnessed between him and the Exarch.

“Then why take the mortal route in waiting for your body to heal itself?” Y’shtola asked. “Or eating, for that matter?”

“He’d claimed it to be halfway decent. I thought to see if in this, he might be right.”

“I don’t want any part of this discussion,” Thancred said immediately, as he realized exactly who Emet-Selch referenced. He gave a _what? Just the truth_ look back at Y’shtola when she flattened her gaze at him.

“... I had believed it rude to inquire,” Urianger began.

“Then perhaps it is best not to?” Emet-Selch said.

“But now I believe it prudent,” he continued smoothly. “Why must we wait for Fandaniel? Thy propensity for traveling through the Rift is well-known amongst us all.”

“Did something more happen while you two were down there?” Alphinaud asked, his voice on the quieter side compared to Urianger and Y’shtola’s firm tones.

“How much longer until Fandaniel arrives, anyway? Do we know?” the Exarch--- interrupted. That was an interruption without being one. A diversion, Thancred would call it. And a very obvious one, if even Ryne saw it for what it was.

“She simply texted ‘soon,’” Y’shtola answered, her tone saying she definitely noticed the diversion, too.

“Your story hadn’t involved anything that breathed fire,” Alphinaud said, slowly. His eyes rested on the obvious burn beneath the hastily done bandage on Emet-Selch’s shoulder. “Where did that come from?”

Rather than answer, Emet-Selch sat himself back down on his seat -- a conveniently sized, if slightly short, rock -- and returned to eating as if the conversation around him was done, or at the least, that he wasn’t the center of it.

“It happened after we fell from the sinkhole,” the Exarch said, “and he landed on his shoulder. The skin broke, and-- our options were fairly limited in stemming the bleeding. I’ll admit I also panicked...”

“And you’ve decided to keep it as a souvenir,” Y’shtola said flatly to Emet-Selch, _not_ the Exarch.

“It would be quite the reminder,” Emet-Selch replied, smooth as anything and still much more interested in his food than those around him.

Those around him tried not to eye the Exarch with suspicion or exchange uncertain glances, but when it came down to it, they all -- Thancred excepted, who true to his word, did not engage in the conversation -- ended up in one of the two camps.

After an extended, terse pause, Y’shtola turned to the Exarch and asked, calm but blunt, “Is this really the time to be keeping secrets?”

“I--” the Exarch floundered into silence, his eyes growing wide and his shoulders and ears drooping. The exhaustion of the day’s events weighed ever more obviously on him as he struggled to find the necessary words. “That is-- it- has a very reasonable explanation--”

He was protecting Emet-Selch, Ryne realized. Or, suspected. Or-- something. She didn’t know. The whole situation had taken a turn for the _weird_ , especially after she’d witnessed the two of them act so friendly with one another. Y’shtola and the others, even Thancred, seemed to come to the same conclusion. Alisaie’s face pinched, her expression wavering between her loyalty to the Exarch and what was unfolding in front of her. Alphinaud’s became tired, but hard, too, like he was steeling himself for some unpleasant but very necessary questions.

Before any of them could act on the change in mood, Emet-Selch swallowed his bite and said, voice disinterested and without deigning to look at any of them, “We know the Doom infected the energy here because it infected me. The only reason I’m not a mindless beast is because the Exarch removed its immediate manifestation and, as long as I refrain from using Creation magics, it remains dormant. Seemingly, in any case.”

For a good, long moment, the only sound between them was the pop of the fire and distant scratch of the desert brush caught in a breeze.

“Its _cry_ hasn’t faded, however,” he added, at last glancing up -- to the Exarch, first and foremost, and then around to the others, meeting their eyes each in turn. His expression was so blank, meeting his gaze almost hurt. “And so I know it hasn’t completely disappeared. It’s merely biding its time.”

Alphinaud found his voice first, though it wavered underneath its reflexive confidence. He always sounded most confident when he wasn’t, lately. “… It’s been in you for… a day and a half?”

“Roughly,” he agreed.

“And you’re still going to return to Amaurot.” 

“I was intending to inform Fandaniel, and discuss our options from there.”

“Intending to inform me of what? -- Hades! Exarch! Very happy to see you two after all this time, but-- _wow_ , I’m sorry, but you two really look like a mess, what _happened?_ ”

Fandaniel stepped through her swirling-blue portal with a step too jaunty to be honest. Her joy at seeing the Exarch and Emet-Selch seemed genuine, but as did her immediate concern and confusion.

“Ah,” Emet-Selch drolled, “impeccable timing, as always. Take a seat, please. Would you like a bowl of stew?”

**. . .**

Before sunset, a decision was made, and they all returned to Amaurot.

They didn’t see Emet-Selch again for a while after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [in the midst of the eels](https://i.imgur.com/sA2ZdnG.png)   
>  [emet-selch finding it difficult to sleep; g'raha, not so much](https://i.imgur.com/bDFS4Ws.png)
> 
> thank you again to [Jackaloping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackaloping) for the lovely art. <33


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** very big suicidal thoughts and ideation within the context of euthansia in this chapter, all saturated with intense depression. also includes mild medical horror (not extremely detailed, but heavily referenced) done by well-intentioned but ultimately confused Amaurotines. 
> 
> Also additional warning for what is effectively quarantine / lockdown, though a very different situation than most real world comparisons (hopefully?? If a hospital treats u like this pls lawyer up).
> 
> read with caution & care.

A month after they began reconstruction on the miniature Alexander, aided by Amaurotines, put it closer to completion than a year of tireless toil in its original conception.

Or so the Exarch confessed late one night, during a mid-way data-check within an eight-hour session of Hythlodaeus summoning wires per Ironworks specifications, realizing he personally knew a better material for the purpose, shoving the wires into a mountainous collection of cast-off equipment, and summoning the newer, improved wires. Except then he realized that five steps prior could have received the same quality of materials, and that moreover, if he added better wires _here_ then he needed to increase the output _there_ , and on and on until it resembled something far different from its original. And yet, it performed limited test functions perfectly, and, indeed, was more than halfway done.

On the subject of Emet-Selch, Hythlodaeus had questioned the Exarch extensively about what occurred in the cave the first day after their return. After that-- rather, after Hythlodaeus declared he had some questions for the Convocation and left abruptly to supposedly investigate said questions-- the subject did not return. Not in the first week of silence from Emet-Selch, nor the second, nor the third.

Although that boded ill for Emet-Selch, there really wasn’t anything they could immediately do. It was better that they put their focus on the Tycoon.

None too soon, Alphinaud thought. Even ignoring the impending Doom of the Star they stood upon, Urianger had been bedridden for over a bell on the day before from an abrupt lack of energy that could be attributed to nothing other than his unfortunately noncorporeal state. His exhaustion had been so complete and sudden that the Exarch had sat at his bedside and made sure, through his strange magics, that Urianger’s body _hadn’t_ perished. 

To their collective relief: it hadn’t.

Despairingly, the Exarch then confessed that even if it didn’t, the link between them and their forms would soon grow so thin, it wouldn’t matter.

He put it in nicer terms, of course, but that was what it boiled down to.

And so it was that every time Hythlodaeus innovated the Tycoon’s design-- something that would typically interest him, in the ability if not the technicality behind the engineering--Alphinaud had to take a deep breath and _not_ snap at him to _just follow the directions. Please._

“These readings are odd,” Hythlodaeus mused aloud, poking at a new datapad that had the misfortune of being subjected to his unqualified scrutiny. “Exarch, do you recognize this?”

The Exarch set down a box of nails and wandered over.

“... Not really,” the Exarch admitted, immediately and unsurprisingly. None of them could read the datapads with anything close to accuracy. The Exarch himself, as it turned out, had managed his feats in utilizing the Tower through pure instinct, focus, and lots of failed attempts. The Scions themselves stood as prime examples.

“The specifications call for general energy input from the core crystals, but the readings now require a more specific value… I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen these before.”

That sounded like the start to another innovation that would leave the rest of them twiddling their thumbs at the outskirts while Hythlodaeus did the heavy-lifting with undue excitement. 

Alphinaud took a deep, calming breath. 

Was this how Alisaie always felt? No wonder she had a temper.

“Aha!” Hythlodaeus proclaimed once Alphinaud had reached six on his count to ten. “Now I see it. Yes, alright, so, the core requires energies from specific _sources_ , rather than the crystals...”

“Because of all the changes?” the Exarch asked, rather logically.

“No, no. Definitely not.” Hythlodaeus waved an absent hand at him, still tapping at the datapad to scroll through whatever results his test had generated. “It’s because of something else… One moment, let me-- oh. Hm. It’s because of your destination.”

“Temporally or geographically?” Alphinaud asked, to give the Exarch a break from being the confused by-stander.

“Both, as far as I can tell.” 

Tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. 

Longer pause. 

Hythlodaeus nudged at the edge of his mask, which was a sure sign of his nervousness. 

“Is it something we won’t be able to procure?” the Exarch asked, after glancing at Alphinaud. 

A vague but unshakeable apprehension made his fingers itch for something to work on, and fast.

“Partially,” Hythlodaeus answered, voice unusually stilted. “It’s… the sources are very, very specific. Perhaps because your destination is so specific. It makes sense. I suppose.”

A beat.

“One of them is the Tower, as directed by you,” with a head-tilt in the Exarch’s direction. 

Both of the Exarch’s eyebrows twitched up. 

“That’s new,” he agreed, “but doable.”

Hythlodaeus hummed. “Yes. Most assuredly.”

“How many others are there?” Alphinaud asked.

“Two.”

“And they are…?”

“One is undeniably Fandaniel’s signature,” and that made sense, considering her now-known status as the Warrior of Light’s very distant ancestor, “which will take some but not too much convincing to have her contribution, although I will need to learn more before I can know with absolute certainty that doing so _wouldn’t_ drag her along with you all to the future. Now, the other…”

Alphinaud waited for him to continue far longer than he should’ve. In the silence, his mind began to put together what the Tower and Fandaniel’s energies being connected meant, and its very logical, very obvious conclusion. His mind presented the answer as a happy dog presented its owner with a slobber-covered slipper.

Within that analogy, he resisted the urge to kick the dog and thereafter shred the slipper.

If wasn’t a very fine analogy, as he had yet to meet a dog he wanted to kick save when it tried to bite him first, but the feelings underneath were accurate.

“... The other energy is Emet-Selch’s,” the Exarch guessed, voice flat.

“Yes,” Hythlodaeus said in a rush, his shoulders drooping.

“Ah,” Alphinaud said at the same time as the Exarch made a disbelieving, “ _Ah._ ”

Hythlodaeus offered the datapad to the Exarch, who took it and began squinting at it as if he had any chance of either reading its outputs or magically making it different. 

Apparently willing to be the one to nail a coffin shut, Hythlodaeus continued bluntly, his hand again adjusting the edge of his mask, “And without the correct power source, there’s no telling when or where you’ll end up.”

“That would be a problem,” the Exarch murmured.

“But Emet-Selch is--” Alphinaud ventured, turning his eyes to Hythlodaeus.

“-- Indefinitely indisposed,” Hythlodaeus confirmed. 

“Where at?” The Exarch asked.

Hythlodaeus gave them a sad, faint, lopsided smile. “A place neither you nor I have hope of reaching, I’m afraid.”

“Even missing, he manages to be a thorn in our side,” the Exarch muttered, very under breath. Alphinaud and Hythlodaeus politely pretended they didn’t really catch what he said, though Alphinaud sorely wanted to agree.

‘Indefinitely’ didn’t mean ‘definitely,’ so he couldn’t have been _dead._ Hythlodaeus would’ve told them if that had happened.

So...

Hythlodaeus’ contrite expression didn’t deter Alphinaud. He said, “We’ve been known to find our way into places that very much didn’t want us before.”

Hythlodaeus contemplated him back. His hands dropped to his sides, and his mouth thinned. 

“I don’t doubt it,” he said at length, quiet. “Since your return from Styx, he’s been -- and will be for some time, as far as I have gathered -- quarantined under the Convocation’s watch at the Laboratory Olimbos. It’s situated within the heart of the mountain nearest Amaurot. It’s fairly famous for its closed doors.”

“Is fame not counterproductive to secrecy?”

Hythlodaeus’ mouth twisted back up. “You’d think, but not with Olimbos. Only the most desperately bored tabloids dare print rumors attached to the place, so numerous are the theories and little the facts.”

“We can begin to work on finding our way in while you continue with Tycoon’s construction,” Alphinaud offered, and did not let out a breath of relief when Hythlodaeus nodded.

“Would Fandaniel be willing to help us?”

“Possibly,” Hythlodaeus hedged. “Probably. If she finds the time without arousing suspicion. She, like me-- and yes, we understand what befell him-- still, she, rather, _we_ , don’t think Emet-Selch should be there.” 

Despite that good news, he visibly hesitated before continuing. He glanced to the right and left, as if seeking an out. Failing to find one, he returned his attention to them. A queer, defeated air dragged down his voice and countenance.

“But even if you get in,” he said, in the tone of someone speaking a truth he didn’t want to name, “you’ll have to convince him to get out.”

The Exarch’s ears flicked back, his whole expression flattening. “I see.”

Alphinaud said, slowly, “He is… prone to stubbornness. To put it mildly.”

“That may be a small habit of his and a large obstacle for us. Yes.”

**. .̴͛̀̽͊ . .̴͛̀̽͊̀̍ ̴̩̝̙͕̌.̶̨̢͍̪̯̪̻̖͉̝̪͈̞͐͂̀́̅͒̆͜͜m̴̳̟͙̞͈̦̹̞̬̠̣̉͗̋̐͆̅̈́̎̀̾̊̓͠ ̸̯̜̬͙̹̔̅͗͋̽̀.̴͍͉͗͑̎͛̕ .̷̢̲̥̈̈́̾̄͠ ̷͍̼̩̤̻̮̠̄́͒͠͝ ̵̩͇̮̽̅͆̍̈́̅͝ t̴͉̪̼̒̑̂̄͛̆̅̉͘ ̷̛̫̳͉̻̖͌͐̈́͊̈́̋͆̋͐̋̊͘͝ - .,̸̨̬̬̜̜͍͔͊̋̄̃̚͘͝ ̸̡̜̹̘̞͕̝̦͋͌͆͠ͅͅ ŝ̷̢̛̖͇̠͙͔̹̠͇̹̉̾̑̿̾̇̚̕ . ,**  
“You’re sure?”

“Not you too, Elidibus.”

“Our concerns are valid, Emet-Selch. That you brush them off--”

“I had been told it was my choice.”

“... It is.”

“But?”

Sighing, Elidibus dropped a fourth packet of papers upon his chest. When Emet-Selch opened the manila folder, the stack within stood two finger-widths in height. The topmost page proclaimed in red, bold type: **CONFIDENTIAL.** As he thumbed through it, each page was near black with paragraphs of text. Footnotes small enough as to need a microscope to be legible took up more than half of each sheet.

Emet-Selch hummed in the back of his throat. Though he truly read only the first and second pages before losing interest, the contents were clear. 

“Must I initial every page, or would one signature at the end do?”

“The scientists take their consent forms very seriously,” he was informed, “and would be gladdened to hear that you paid them the same respect. As would I.”

He’d already signed two packet’s worth of so-called consent forms. The scientists could do with a lessen in brevity, Emet-Selch thought.

Their accommodations were just as opulent. Although imposing from the outside, the Laboratory's soul-bearing residents -- or, subjects -- were treated to highly personalized, superbly comfortable rooms. Emet-Selch’s resembled his office at the Bureau, modified to include a small, modern kitchen and pristine bedroom. Behind his desk, which was a spitting image of the one he had spent years attempting to reach in his very, very young age, the large bay window provided an excellent view over a lifelike recreation of Amaurot. Unlike his own recreation on the First, this one varied in weather patterns, random events to witness on the streets (such as one fake Amaurotine who had the unfortunate clumsy habit of running into light poles), and indeed, even the vaguest impression of actual, whole _souls_ roaming about outside. 

The moment he wished to modify his surroundings, he was to knock twice on the door and project his desire. As long as he desired nothing that would cause harm to himself or others, the room’s incredible engineering would do its best to manifest for him even his most obscure wishes.

Barring the lock on the door and knowledge that all the walls were transparent with nosy, white-robed busy-bodies on the other side, it was a grand, all-inclusive and fully-automated stay. A shame he wasn’t allowed visitors outside of the Convocation. Hythlodaeus would get a kick out of the fact that his office was his first choice in accommodations.

But then, perhaps it was best that this place, out of all places, Hythlodaeus could not visit. Emet-Selch was sure of what he was doing for Amaurot’s benefit. He was giving her the best chance she had at resisting the Doom. 

In light of the likely fatal consequences therein, he wasn’t as sure he could watch Hythlodaeus walk out the door and leave him behind yet again. 

They had so little time together. He had been a fool to squander any of it through such a petty thing as melancholy.

“If you’re sure,” Elidibus was saying, catching Emet-Selch’s attention from where it had inadvertently strayed to the simulated, oh-so-lifelike Amaurot beyond his office window (and clever though he knew himself to be, he’d failed to manage half of what these scientists did; for the best, perhaps, as then the Elidibus he knew on the Source would have had more reason to harp about his work ethic), “then initial every page. I will wait here until you’re finished.”

“To personally deliver the papers for me?” Emet-Selch murmured, unable to hide the reproach in his voice. “I’m not sure whether to consider that a kindness, my oldest friend.”

He did not realize his slip until it was too late. Elidibus merely inclined his head, accepting it as it was. It was strange to think, but it was possible, indeed quite possible, that Elidibus had a slightly clearer mind than he, at this very moment.

“As is my duty,” and he always had been one for duty, hadn’t he, “I will take full responsibility for what becomes of you.”

“How unfortunate for the both of us.”

Elidibus sat heavily upon the chair opposite his desk, his mouth pulled tight beneath his mask and the air prickly with his distaste for Emet-Selch’s decision. Still, he didn’t infringe upon Emet-Selch’s choice. He understood the hard decisions of the few made for the betterment of all.

He said, voice suspiciously soft and reluctant for their vaulted Emissary, “Indeed.”

**.̷̩͕̈́ ̶̰̆.̵̜̓ ̸̠̥͛́.̴̡̭͒ ̵̯̖̅̔ e̸̡̛͋ ̶̨̋͜l̵̮̠̓ ̵͗̍ .̶̝̩͋ ̶͈̐̇ . ̶̮̳̐. .**  
“How can you be sure about this? You’ve never done it before.”

“Always a time for firsts.”

“I’m being serious, Hades. Say the word, and they’ll let you right out of here.”

“I know. Despite what you may think, I _did_ actually read the agreements I signed.”

A disgruntled noise of inarticulable frustration, then: “If you had, you wouldn’t have signed them! You make a poor martyr, my friend.”

“The first go around, I stood by while half our people sacrificed themselves.” That shut her up. “What right do I have to my life over theirs?”

Silence.

The first week in Olimbos passed with painstaking slowness. Emet-Selch suspected a second had been stretched by magical means into a minute, and thereafter into an hour, to better provide the scientists time to analyze the results of their countless tests. Though they dared not heal him directly with magics considering his overt aetherial-based sickness, his arm had regrown the majority of the inch-long cuts of skin they’d taken from him before they returned for more. Unfortunately, they sought extractions from below the skin, as they appeared with a barbarically large needle and a contrite, _Nothing odd comes up on your epidermis. We’ll run your plasma and marrow now. If that comes back negative, we’ll proceed to checking the stomach, lungs, heart... Your current form is based in a typical bipedal primate, correct? It may have saved you._

How ironic if it had. Here laid such incredible, death-defying flesh as to defy the Doom... except, it couldn’t even properly heal the burn on his left shoulder. Absent an unexpected resurgence of his aetherial control free from sickness, an unsightly, pock-marked scar now forever marred the damned thing. 

After they’d extracted the blood and marrow, he slept for what felt to be a hundred years. 

And yet upon her arrival, Fandaniel claimed it had only been a week.

“There’s another way,” she insisted after a long, long moment, which told him all he needed to know: he was right. “Just… Help me find it. You know as well as I do that Styx isn’t the origin of this disease.”

His eyes threatened to slip closed. Only a week, and he felt so tired. His sorcery remained out of his reach. His room, once a kindness, was now a mockery of what could have been if only he’d been quicker. He planned to request a change to something less insulting once she left. He was no longer a part of the Amaurot he loved. Indeed, he had started to wonder if he ever had been since his return to its height of glory.

“The point of my being here isn’t Styx,” he said, unwilling to hide his exhaustion from _her_. 

On this day, he knew she wasn’t a threat to him or Amaurot. No voice whispered so.

No voice spoke at all. He’d contemplated calling out for Zodiark, just to be sure, but-- he was pretty sure. That he could remain here while the Convocation continued their march to Zodiark’s door demonstrated as much. That he _knew_ he would not be capable of lingering if Zodiark had His hold in full upon him was proof in itself.

Oh, he very much wanted to leave. Ethical to a frustrating point, the scientists made no effort to hide their assessment that he would, if they were to extract a true cure to what disease faced them, most likely face an entire loss of identity. If the disease did not bar him from his Creation magics permanently and they _did_ discover a cure, it was likely at the aetherial level. They would do their best to preserve his soul for safe transfer into a new vessel, of course, but they promised nothing. Igeyorhm, Olimbos’ lead, allowed no less. She stood by the ideal that consent had no meaning without full disclosure.

She had taken that belief forward into Zodiark’s summoning, Emet-Selch remembered. The half of their population that had sacrificed themselves knew exactly what they had signed themselves up for. 

Did it soften the terror of what they wrought upon their peoples, and those to follow? Once upon a time, Emet-Selch would say absolutely, yes.

Now…

He didn’t know.

For the first time in a long, long time: he didn’t know.

He said into Fandaniel’s desperate silence (a second to a minute to a _year_ , it stretched), “Martyrdom is too kind a word.”

“Both of my little hanger-ons agree. Theia _especially_ agrees,” Fandaniel informed him. “She thinks you’re an idiot, plain and simple. She’d like me to remind you that you’d promised to face her in the Tempest, and that this is most definitely a breach of that promise, which is highly unfortunate, because she’d really been looking forward to punching you in the face.”

“She’s half you,” he replied, letting his eyes slip closed, “and you entirely her, so that, I am not surprised by.”

Another disgusted noise. He was mildly surprised she didn’t punch him in the face herself.

Instead she-- even short as she was, for an Amaurotine-- loomed over his bedside and demanded, “Why do you not accept that you yet have good to grace us with in the Convocation hall? You need not lose yourself to this.”

He didn’t know.

Perhaps: because after all he required of others, this was merely his own payment, long overdue. 

After she left, more time passed. He requested his room be changed from his office to a room more fitting for what he was. The marrow and plasma showed nothing. They next investigated his mind, to see if the cause were somehow psychological. 

In those rigorous tests, far worse for their lack of needles and physical metrics, he called unwillingly and instinctively for Zodiark’s guidance. What began as a whisper grew to a shout, which he was sure baffled and scared the scientists observing him, but he didn’t care, he truly didn’t, because-- whether loud or quiet, polite or beseeching, dignified or respectable--

For the first time in time immemorial, Zodiark did not respond.

When he came down from his frantic realization, logic took him by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake, because _of course He didn’t._ He hadn’t! Not since his travel back in time to Amaurot. How had he been so blind? It bordered outright delusion, if not insanity. How hadn’t he realized? He _had_ but he _hadn’t_ , not really. He’d still trudged along what path Zodiark would have set, what He would have wanted. 

Except here existed a world at its most complete. It had no need for Zodiark.

Ideally, it would never have a need for Zodiark.

 _Ideally_ , he’d never have given them the basic recipe for a primal, or at least stopped himself from thereafter supplying the entire damned cookbook to summon Zodiark specifically. But he had, and now he needed to give them whatever alternatives he could, because Fandaniel was right on at least one point. Life spent toiling under a primal’s yoke was no life at all. When he removed its weight and looked at what little remained, he found nothing but endless sorrow built upon pillars of empty nostalgia.

In his newly realized and highly unpleasant freedom, Emet-Selch recognized a crucial fact. It was one unfathomable with Zodiark’s ever-encouraging omnipotence, His hand heavy upon his shoulders and His claws deep in his soul. Then, one unfathomable because he had thought himself reunited with his home, his people, his equals.

But now, more than ever before: he stood entirely alone.

**\--̷̖̘͆̓ ̵̠̏̓-̶̱͍̒ ̸͓̓͌,̸̳̫͛̃ ̵̘̗̄.̷̪͍̔̆ ̶̙̰̀̕.̶͍͛ ̸͇̾́h̸̦̏ ̸̱͐?̸̗̇͂ ̸̢̆w̵̦͓̾ ̷̻͖͆h̵̗͊ ̷̘̯͌.̸̨͚͌ ̶͈̝̌̇ , .̶̘͍͗̿ . - ̶̥̙͗ ̷͙̒ͅ r̶̡̝̈́ ̵̯̐̕ .̵͖̲̒ . .**  
“We’ve made substantive progress in understanding the disease. Its official name will be the terminus virus, as ‘Doom’ is a bit… on the nose.”

“And hopefully inaccurate, when all is said and done.”

“Quite.”

Emet-Selch made a _hopefully_ responsive noise. He couldn’t exactly raise his head, so heavy was it upon his thin pillow. He struggled to open his eyes.

The psychological testing had proved inconclusive. After a month of thorough investigation into his mental capabilities-- yielding much data that he did not wish to know and indeed intended to and succeeded at immediately forgetting-- they moved into his aetherial state. While they did so, he was informed by Elidibus during one of his infrequent visits that progress on the Zodiark project was moving as expected. He did not know when or precisely why the impulse took him, but it rose all the same: he wished, desperately, to tell them to stop.

It was an irrational and unsubstantiated thought. He buried it before it breached his lips.

The aetherial tests were--

His mind refused to retain the details, but it and his body knew: they overwhelmed him. It was as bad as the consent forms implied. It was worse than Elidibus wished. It was all Fandaniel and Hythlodaeus, in their protests, warned him it would be.

Lahabrea and Igeyorhm stood before him.

“Are you sure?” Lahabrea asked him. “At the rate her team has progressed, this may very well lead to the final stage that will be asked of you.”

“Although we are guessing, at best,” Igeyorhm said. “The timing gives us precious little ability to put theory to practice. Your sacrifice may be for naught.”

As had the sacrifice of his people. As it had been, as it would be again.

Without Zodiark at his heels, he found little reason to move, let alone run. 

“What of the Crystal Tower?” he asked, his mouth and throat dry from his mind and soul’s exhaustion. 

“... It still stands,” Igeyorhm said. “Per Nabriales’ reports, the mortals within have not emerged for some time.”

Hm.

Perhaps they would eventually see Amaurot for her majesty. Though it was undoubtedly not where they wished they could be, there were far, far, _far_ worse places to be stuck. Garlemald, for one. The First after its Flood, for another.

“I’ve lived countless lives,” he said, his eyes closed and his heartbeat steady, “and if I am to succeed in ensuring you may do the same, then this one will have ended well.” 

“Fandaniel is right,” Lahabrea said after a time, “that martyrdom does not suit you, Emet-Selch. Let it be known we do not ask for your sacrifice, but that you give it freely. That sacrifice will be remembered.”

By who? 

By them. By all of them.

Finally, the weight would not rest solely on him.

“I will need your sigil to confirm your intent,” Igeyorhm said, professional by force of will if her strictly-held voice was any indication, “and your understanding of what you are agreeing to.”

With great expense in effort, he opened his eyes and propped himself upon his elbows on his flat, unremarkable bed.

His flesh had been constrained to all the limits of a mortal, but this-- this, was of the soul and mind alone. 

Unlike the other two, he wore no mask save the one of Solus zos Galvus. Turning inward, he found and summoned that rarely-used, most-precious thing, and so made manifest his true face, lined in intricate, curling red. 

A name unknown, a self forgotten, an identifier no mortal truly comprehended. 

Once upon a time, in a place such as this, it had meant something beyond his own deep, sentimental attachment. Now, he didn’t know.

Ironic that he was likely in the minority for his newfound ignorance. To Lahabrea and Igeyorhm and all his brethren across the Star, it was appreciated for everything it represented. It meant he was as and who he claimed. It wasn’t perceived as illegible scribbles summoned in fervent, hellish hope that _maybe this time, they’ll remember,_ or presented in dull curiosity as to a self-proclaimed avid scholar’s ability to recognize out of context a warning painted on a wall centuries prior, or meant as a nightmare manifest in a particularly troublesome mortal’s last moments. It didn’t merely mean _Ancient_ , or Ascian, or _Asmohrine_ , or whatever else the shards decided to term them because they hadn’t the proper eyes, ears, and tongues to repeat what they were told.

Those were old wounds and old frustrations, long bled dry.

For the first time after so long, he pulled himself consciously from ruminating upon ancient indignities and, instead, relished the present.

At least here, his name was recognized and known.

Unaware of his wandering, spiralling thoughts, Igeyorhm nodded in acquiescence, and bowed her head in respect to the individual she had once called a friend. Lowering himself back to his bed and letting his name so fade, Emet-Selch didn’t bother to correct her on how little he resembled her memory.

**. . .**  
“If you’d been unsure before, you should have brought it up then.”

“Now it is ‘too late?’”

“Not by technicality, but in practicality, yes. This little monster took considerable effort to procure.”

Emet-Selch struggled to open his eyes. Would that he could stretch his awareness to test out his surroundings without the need for his cumbersome body; but that, as with his creation magics, threatened to open his mind and soul to sickness before its time. While two months at Olimbos should have been more than enough time, this was a disease they had never before seen, and a patient they never before had to so carefully treat (not for his status, but for the necessary restraints in methods).

Though Lahabrea tended toward antagonistic on the best of days-- and these were, for Lahabrea, for all of them, the best of days--he waited in patient silence until, at last, Emet-Selch’s eyes opened and he propped himself upon his elbows to look at what Lahabrea held. It took a second for the black spots to clear from his vision, so unused had his body grown to movement and so weak his heart from what was, most likely, too much blood drawn.

Once he managed, he wished immediately to lay down again.

He observed the small, white crystal Lahabrea held carefully aloft with some amount of dread. The feeling surprised him; his surprise, even more so. Not even time could erase all instincts, apparently-- and no greater instinct was there than the need for self-preservation.

He asked, “This is to be the final stage, then?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” and he probably did, as he was not near so limited as Emet-Selch at the moment, “and although it would be quite the dramatic end, _no_ , it isn’t your _final_ stage. The white auracite is a precaution.” 

Unbidden, Emet-Selch remembered: this was how the Warrior of Light had destroyed Igeyorhm. They’d trapped her into a white auracite and shattered her with pure aether. They would have destroyed Lahabrea as well, had he not abandoned her and hidden himself within the Eye. As compared to others, she had been so near to whole. Had he regretted leaving her, his once-companion and closest confidant? Or had he merely regretted the inconvenience it caused him, as Emet-Selch and Elidibus had upon the news of both her and his ultimate demise? 

Madness was a blessing when one had fallen into a darkness that deep.

“... relatively certain it isn’t your _soul_ that is the problem.” Emet-Selch drew himself back to the present, to this young, proud, brilliant Lahabrea, who would take every precaution he could to ensure the safety of those he held dear. “Once your soul has been comfortably secured in here, we’ll fully process the remains and get to the bottom of what _is_ the problem. It’s strange: you’ve effectively halted the disease’s progression, but we can’t tell how.”

“If it were easy, neither of us would be here,” Emet-Selch said, meaning it in more ways than one, if only for himself.

Lahabrea snorted. “That much is true. In any case, lacking your objection, I will fetch the apparatus to help ease the transfer’s pain.”

He had no objections. He did remark, with just a hint of a teasing edge, “I thought you said it would be comfortable?”

“Once you’re inside, you should feel nothing at all. Some reported mild discomfort due to the compression, but barring intentional struggle on your part, it will be as if you had just woken up after a nice, long sleep: comfortable, if drowsy.” Lahabrea waved a dismissive hand, then gave him an exaggerated grimace. “The transfer, _with_ aid… is more like if you’d been woken by a hammer to the skull, and then stepped on by a particularly large dragon. That was one patient’s colorful wording, at least.”

Had Igeyorhm suffered in transfer and struggled in containment? She must have. Had she even the memories to understand what faced her when the Warrior of Light drew her into the auracite? She must have. 

Whatever terror she must have felt, Emet-Selch found he could not share.

Letting himself fall back to the bed he had scarcely climbed out of in the past weeks, Emet-Selch waved an absent hand at him. Neither of them pointed out how it shook, because they were yet civilized. “Warning duly noted. Go on, then. Fetch your device.”

To better pass the time, which had continued its torturously slow dredge, he let his eyes slip closed once more.

Although his awareness remained firmly connected to his body’s mortal senses, he knew Lahabrea lingered a moment too long for a scientist detached.

At length, he said, so quiet as to be drowned out by the softest breeze, “We will not fail, Hades,” and departed to fetch his device.

Lahabrea had always been too proud to know when he faced defeat. It was a trait they all shared, in the end.

Still, Emet-Selch found the dredges of his flickering hope that he wasn’t wrong.

…

… …

… … …

“Emet-Selch?”

The plain white ceiling he had chosen over his office’s ornate gold-lined marble greeted him as his eyes snapped open.

“-- _Exarch._ ” He turned his head and leveraged himself immediately upon one elbow, ignoring how he swayed and his head swam. “ _What_ are you doing here? -- And you? And even-- you?”

“Told you he’d be ungrateful,” one of them -- Thancred -- grumbled to his companion, the white miqo’te. Y’shtola.

“I never disagreed,” Y’shtola muttered back. “I merely said it didn’t matter.”

Ignoring them, the Exarch said, “We need you,” which was excessively blunt, especially from him.

“ _Excuse_ me,” he swung his legs over the side of his small mortal-sized bed, forcing himself up though he immediately folded forward, elbows on his knees, “as I fail to see-- no, wait. For the love of… How did you even get in here?”

“We can discuss that at a later juncture,” the Exarch replied, his eyes evasively dropping to the side before returning to meet Emet-Selch’s. In them, he read a frankly startling desperation. “Time is of the essence at present.”

“Can you even stand?” Thancred asked, with expected bluntness. His eyes flicked from Emet-Selch, to Y’shtola, and then to the room’s _startlingly_ cracked-ajar door. “We could carry him, but it’ll slow us down significantly.”

“I’m going nowhere,” Emet-Selch replied, as that, somehow, seemed to be a basic understanding he had and they lacked.

In clear contradiction to his express -- and plain! -- statement, the Exarch beseeched him. “Without your magics, we won’t be able to return home. Hythlodaeus is sure it has to involve you, or it won’t work.”

“This is not the negotiation angle we agreed upon,” Y’shtola said.

“But it is efficient,” Thancred replied. His attention remained on the door, even as he set one hand on his gunblade’s hilt. As if that would do anything were an Amaurotine to return-- actually. Where were the scientists outside? On _lunch?_

Emet-Selch placed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, and rubbed. Even if his head weren’t pounding from the morning’s tests and months’ personalized treatment, his thoughts would have been spinning from this bizarre development.

Perhaps he had gone mad after all. But if he had, he didn’t think he’d conjure up Thancred and Y’shtola. The Exarch at least made some sense, tied as he was to Emet-Selch’s growing regret over his actions in Zodiark’s name.

“Hythlodaeus is involved in this--? What would this be? A kidnapping? You planned a kidnapping.”

“-- No. We planned to request your aid.” The Exarch hadn’t lost the beseeching tone in his voice. “And so we have.”

“So you have. Rather _poorly_.” He dropped his hand back to brace against his knee. “You need my magics to… return you home. Much as I do love to be the bearer of bad news, I take no pleasure in admitting that even if I presently had the desire to help you, I haven’t the ability.”

All three before him froze. Their eyes widened as gazes snapped to him and, for lack of a better term, _stared._

“What do you mean?” the Exarch asked at last, voice hushed.

“I haven’t been able to access my magics since our underground excursion,” he informed them. He felt as though another spoke in his place, so patient and matter-of-fact were his words. Wherever he summoned such qualities, it took the greatest amount of energy yet. “As I surmised upon our last meeting, I’ve been infected. Lack of aetherial control is currently a principal side-effect. A permanent cure has yet to be manufactured, thus my presence here.”

Thancred and Y’shtola’s faces grew grim. They, at least, seemed to understand the futility of their venture.

The Exarch was not so bright. Rather: he, as he’d long proven prone to, had too much unfaltering _hope._

“-- But if you regained the ability,” the Exarch said, with the tone of voice of the desperately hopeful. As if he could speak his solution into being by sheer force of will. When his soul had been whole, he likely had. “What would you require so as to lend your support? It is possible you’d need to return with us, but not definite. I freely admit that we work with wonders we don’t truly understand.”

At that, the patience he’d had fled. In its place rose cold pity.

He swung his legs back up onto his bed, and slowly lowered himself down again. 

“You’re better off asking what the dead might gain from aiding the living.”

The Exarch’s nose scrunched in reflexive distaste, his ears swiveling backwards.

“At least tell us why you won’t,” he demanded. His determination was boundless. “Do you truly believe you hold the key to your people’s salvation? Have you not already given them all you could?”

Emet-Selch considered the plain ceiling above him. 

His room resembled a hospital’s single-patient room. As he was not a true masochist despite substantial evidence to the contrary, it was a hospital room he’d once visited in Amaurot, which made it substantially better than any hospital on the Source or sister Shards.

The original room had played final host to a peculiar Amaurotine that he had not known for long by anyone’s standards. She had been his first, and oldest, civil engineering mentor.

Death was a scarcity to his people. Those who succumbed by and large did so voluntarily, due to one personal reason or another that he had not, at the time or ever after, fully understood. Personally, he’d known two Amaurotines who chose to release themselves into the Lifestream. The first, his mentor, had declared him fit to take her position and thereafter immediately retired from work, submitted the required paperwork, and admitted herself to Amaurot’s hospital for the requisite monitoring prior to her soul’s permanent release into the Underworld. He recalled that she had done so only on the condition that her soul was retrieved for purposes of rebirth as an Amaurotine after the Lifestream had wiped it clean of her memories and identifiers. The officials that maintained the city’s population levels had been all too happy to agree, as adequate souls for rebirth were ever-rare, especially compared to the endless waiting list of applications for children by wishful, would-be caretakers.

The other, a coworker from another station years later, had desired a similar restart, albeit not one as an Amaurotine. He had been specific about the administration keeping their paws off his soul, lest they ruin the ‘natural order’ of things. All agreed he had been a rather strange individual.

Neither made sense to him. They had been healthy, reasonably respected, and overall productive members of the community. Both had been on the older side, true, but back then, time was simply a measure for the passing of the seasons. When asked, they said they knew it was ‘their time.’

Ridiculous. None had been better for their departure.

Even on his own self-made deathbed, such an individualized decision was incomprehensible. What he consigned himself differed vastly from an impulse to know the unknown. It was… at most, maintaining responsibility. At the least, it was a reminder that he did not stand above his own people.

The Exarch was wrong: he couldn’t be sure he’d given them all he could. Not until the end. 

The Exarch, misinterpreting his silence for uncertainty, refused to give up. “We aren’t sure returning to our timeline will necessarily destroy this one. What you’ve changed may yet linger. We’re only sure that this is _our_ chance to return to where we belong.”

“And where is that?” Emet-Selch murmured. “The Source you once walked, Exarch, whose existence you strove to unravel? The First, which you would not have cared or known about had its fate not impacted your home? Or the Source as you all knew it, free of a Calamity but mired in smaller, everyday equivalents?”

“Wherever it is,” the Exarch returned immediately, not to be distracted, “it isn’t here.” And, quieter, “None of us belong here.”

That much was true.

“If we ever did, then our time has long passed, Emet-Selch,” Y’shtola added, her voice tight but professional. She’d always seemed the one with a mind for logic. Now that he again paid attention, each Scion varied quite drastically from the next. He supposed this shouldn’t have surprised him. “If you are determined to give yourself over to your city, as that auracite we saw your fellow holding implied, so be it. We merely ask that you rid yourself of the future you will not accept before you do.”

As far as arguments went, it wasn’t half-bad. If they would have allowed her entry, the Hall of Rhetoric would have enjoyed her.

“Otherwise,” Thancred added, voice deceptively idle, “I can assure you, we won’t stop being a thorn in your people’s side. That was Lahabrea in here earlier, wasn’t it? He doesn’t take nearly as much care in his surroundings as when I knew him.”

A _threat._

Predictable, but refreshingly so. Threats were a language he’d learned to speak so well, he’d forgotten how to stop. No wonder his fellow Convocation members had treated him oddly when he’d first returned: his every word might as well have been from a stranger to their very world. 

How Thancred could tell that figure had been Lahabrea was a fact likely unknown to him, but obvious in the abstract. A soul, no matter how small, never forgot its aggressors. 

By Y’shtola and the Exarch’s startled silence, he hadn’t shared that fact before.

Funny creatures, mortals. 

They had their place. They’d said their piece. He considered each in turn, though he didn’t need to consider for long. He’d made his bed. As he had with Zodiark, he would lay in it.

“Unless you would like to put your strength to the test post haste,” he said, his body heavy and his senses dull and his sorrow endless, “you’d best leave now.”

He didn’t ask if they understood, or if they’d accept his wishes, or anything else so cruel and banal.

Thancred cursed him, a sharp angry word that fell upon deaf ears. Y’shtola bade her companions that they need retreat, lest they risk discovery after the trials they took to get into Olimbos-- which had surely been extensive, as none before had managed it. 

By the time he thought he might inquire about its particularities from the Exarch, if only to tell Igeyorhm of areas in security to improve, he realized they had disappeared back out the door.

… But of course they had.

(He was fortunate he hadn’t been watching, lest he stall them further for reasons unknowable).

It mattered not. Hythlodaeus would work out a solution for them. He had the heart for it.

Soon after stood Lahabrea in their place. In his hands was a glass box webbed in blue, a white auracite hovering gently within.

“Ready?” he asked his friend, who he would not grow to know too well in the eons to come.

“More than you know,” Emet-Selch replied, and firmly ignored the voice within that urged him to _reconsider, please. Please! What do you even think you’re doing? You’d give up, after all this time?_

The impulse to rescind and retreat reeked of the Exarch; or, barring exact identification, the mortals he had spent far too long around.

Yet again, they were wrong. It wasn’t giving up. It was making things right.

**. . .**  
Handling white auracite was always a disaster-in-wait. The crystal’s full capabilities were scarcely understood even amongst the greatest sorcerers, of which Lahabrea counted himself among. Part of the reason was its rarity. Other reasons had to do with what they _did_ know it could do: that was, trap not just any soul, but a full-fledged Amaurotine’s, regardless of power. In that sense, it was a great equalizer. On the other hand, they really had no need for _great equalizers._

Lahabrea very much would rather be anywhere than where he was and doing what he was doing. 

Ordinarily, Emet-Selch would be the one handling this sort of specialized work. But then he just had to be the one to run off to the backwoods, fall down a hole, and come back with the exact disease he’d claimed to help them avoid. _Idiot._

Within moments of Emet-Selch-- no, no. Not Emet-Selch. Hades, really, and he, Hermes, for this was not a procedure between strangers or even professionals, no matter how Igeyorhm tried to dress it up with mindless paperwork and legalese. In any case, Hermes worked quickly once Hades gave him leave to do so, because if he stopped or if even one thing smelt a _little_ off, he would need to permanently recuse himself.

The transfer process wasn’t necessarily difficult. It was merely impossible to know how well he’d succeeded until he tried to reverse it and put the soul back into a proper vessel, and by then, it was too late to catch lost fragments or fix unintentional tears. 

Hells below, it had _better_ have worked. This was his key duty in the investigation (Igeyorhm would take over from here), and he refused to allow any mistakes. Never mind the terminus virus-- the consequences Hades would suffer for his misstep would be too dire.

Hades would be relentless if he knew how Hermes fretted over the crystal suspended in its newly bright-blue box (-- the failsafe equipment was reacting to the presence of a soul as expected, which was a good indicator, wasn’t it?). Hermes could hear him now. Soon, he’d hear him for real, because Igeyorhm had also better have been right that the soul wasn’t the problem. With it safely removed, they would make short work of an autopsy on body and mind and lingering aetherial ties, identify the disease’s triggers, and-- the Convocation would take it from there, together, as it was meant to be. As it should be.

“Don’t go anywhere, now,” he told the crystal as he set its container atop a stainless steel counter, meaning to banish his own worries with a spot of humor. 

As the crystal remained silent and the once-familiar soul within was compressed to an unrecognizable degree, it didn’t work. The sound of glass meeting metal made him wince. Really, the hospital set-up was as disturbing as it was convenient. It brought to mind a readiness for death. It made Hades’ seemingly peaceful acceptance of his sickness foreboding rather than reassuring. In Hermes’ modestly educated opinion, Igeyorhm should have thrown Hades out on his ear the moment he requested it instead of his office: it was _clearly_ the manifestation of an unfit mind. 

She’d been too professional. She should have approached it as true to herself. Rare was a determination Hestia made in error.

The body on the bed had been enough to show Hades’ recent incapacity, actually. So small and fragile, its internal systems simple but inefficient, and -- worst of all! -- it was a near mirror-image of the concepts within the crystal construct. Even after Hades admitted to knowing the creatures better than expected, that he willingly assumed their forms was _concerning._ How had he ever felt comfortable in such a limited container?

Once they’d found the key to the sickness and Hades had properly, fully returned, Hermes owed him a drink and a talk. Or five drinks and at least three talks, because there seemed to be an awful lot Hades had yet to disclose, even if he claimed-- on the second go around-- that he had said everything relevant.

He eyed the crystal. Though Hades surely could not hear him, he said, “The more secrets you reveal, the harder it is to believe any were truly the last. I can’t fathom why you believed us unworthy of your trust, save perhaps your own arrogance...”

Lost as he was in his thoughts, a knock on the door startled him such that he could not monitor his tone as he whipped around on a heel and barked out, “ _Yes?_ Who is it?”

One of the lab technicians nudged open the door and poked her head into the room. She gave the white auracite a wary look, then focused on him. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Lahabrea,” which implied she either thought him at work or that she’d heard him talking to the crystal, but how strange was that? His friend was in there, “but there is a visitor for you at the door.” 

“... A visitor,” he echoed, baffled. “For me. At Olimbos’ door.”

“Yes.” She sounded as unsure as him. “An Odysseus? I would not usually give weight to an unexpected visitor’s requests, but he mentioned Emet-Selch specifically, and that he had urgent news for you, also specifically, regarding his condition.”

“None should know Emet-Selch to be here.” 

She bobbed her head, allowing a pulse of her own uncertainty to show beneath her mask.

He knew he had made a useless statement. She was obviously as in the dark about this Odysseus as he was.

Wait. Odysseus… That was familiar, albeit passingly so.

Intrigued despite himself, Lahabrea gave the white auracite a glance and decided, well, Emet-Selch truly wasn’t going anywhere. Once Lahabrea had finished the related documentation to the procedure -- it had gone without a hitch, to include no lingering pain and suffering in the room --his job was complete. He would check in again before he left, just to make sure the crystal held. 

First, he’d deal with Odysseus. Where _had_ he heard that name? Something about a farm. Alpacas, maybe.

“Did he say where he came from?” He asked the lab tech as he joined her at the door and, thereafter, left the room.

“A rural town, I believe…”

As it turned out: Odysseus had absolutely nothing to say. As a concerned citizen, he’d caught wind that Emet-Selch might be in Olimbos, and so he’d wanted to disclose what he’d learned during his time working alongside him. What he’d learned was nothing. How he’d heard he _and_ Lahabrea would be at Olimbos, he was vague and meandering about, which -- to Lahabrea -- meant he’d definitely indulged himself in one too many speculative tabloids.

That was a hobby unbefitting a council member, and Lahabrea told him as much. Perhaps he’d been a bit harsh, as Odysseus had apologized far too much. He kowtowed and simpered so much that Lahabrea, in his own discomfort, took pity, and dismissed him without further admonishment.

Odysseus thereafter was escorted from the premises by an equally-contrite lab tech. Lahabrea grabbed the necessary forms for the soul transfer and returned to Emet-Selch’s room to fill them out.

“I apologize for my delay,” he announced as he closed the door behind him and clicked on the blue pen he’d fetched from Igeyorhm’s desk because it wrote quite well and was his favorite of hers besides, “although it doesn’t change your current situation in the lea-- Hades?”

The body remained on the bed, unmoved.

The steel counter glimmered sickly under the room’s fluorescent lights. Atop it was: a cup of inferior pens, a stack of manila folders with Hades’ signature scribbled on every line, and an open, transparent box. Deactivated by design upon its simple front panel’s opening, it no longer glowed blue. It no longer needed to.

The crystal inside was gone.

 _Hades_ was gone.

The cup atop the counter rattled as Lahabrea’s alarm shook the aether around him. Igeyorhm, miles away and in conference with the others in the Capital where they awaited his report, responded in kind through their connection-- and, together, alarm expanded into equal parts horror and fury. If they hadn’t gathered from words she likely spoke upon his contact with her, the others would know soon enough of what had occurred.

Good. They would be of one mind on _this_ new crisis, at least.

Pens spilled everywhere as he whirled on a heel and took himself to the sole chamber in Olimbos where teleportation wasn’t restricted. On his way out, he made certain to shut the door tight, and instruct the highly nervous lab tech that the room was to be set immediately to stasis to preserve the body, and moreover, that _no one_ and _nothing_ was to go in or out without Convocation approval. 

To ensure she understood the gravity of the situation, he sealed his word with a flash of his sigil, its red a blazing promise for any further mistakes.

By her frantic nodding and low bow, she got the message. Thus satisfied, he continued to the Capital with all due haste, mind whirling.

Odysseus’ convenient arrival had been part of whatever heist had just occurred, he was sure of it. What to do with that knowledge, however, he did not immediately know. This-- was unprecedented insubordination. This was, depending on the state they found Hades’ soul in, quite possibly an exercise in _murder._

Amaurot’s first. 

Which made for too many firsts in too little time, Lahabrea thought darkly. Amaurot’s aetherial grid was still affected by the unsightly Tower’s close proximity. They should have removed that as soon as it arrived-- but now, as had been the case since Emet-Selch’s reveal of their imminent future, there was no time for comparatively paltry matters. First, they needed Hades back, and thereafter his thief in _strict_ confinement.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** not as much as last chapter, but still suicidal thoughts and ideation. read with caution & care!

Amaurotine souls were impossible to miss.

Their entire world was a sea of suns and stars connected by thick webs of white-bright aether. It was powerful as anything, their engagements with the energies around them automatic and careless. Taken together, the ease with which they moved about their Creation-soaked world reminded Y’shtola greatly of the Light’s heavy heat upon her head when she ventured beyond the Greatwood’s shade. They were each a Lightwarden, though their source of strength was nothing so simple as a warden’s. 

As far as she had puzzled out, they utilized their Star’s energies as a fisherman drew the hungriest and dumbest fish upon his line: happily, swiftly, and ever-ready for the next cast.

Whether they used their magics or not -- and they almost always did, for purposes Y’shtola couldn’t comprehend and, on asking Hythlodaeus, was likely to never comprehend due to her own limitations -- the soul was a beacon.

Beacons rarely varied much from one another. Despite this, she had come to recognize the nuances to a select few. 

Fandaniel, for one: a peculiar off-blue, and ever accompanied by two smaller lights that closely orbited her. Cahsi and Ardbert, as it turned out. Hythlodaeus, for another: a soul very contained and organized compared to his fellows and as contrary to his usual mannerisms. Emet-Selch, for the last: a soul very _uncontained_ and chaotic, with strange darkened lines shifting and spiderwebbing in and out of its core at any given time. 

She needed not his Garlean vessel to recognize him. 

\-- Odysseus, too, after he spent near a fortnight within the Tower planning their heist. He, as everyone else in Amaurot, had grown concerned with the Convocation member’s continued absence and, even more worrisome, their silence. He’d heard of the rumors surrounding two members’ visit to Styx, and rightly concluded them to be none-too-reassuring. He had gotten involved upon Fandaniel’s suggestion, after Hythlodaeus had caught Fandaniel on a rare break from her endless conferences and asked for her help, which she gave to a limited purpose as she would not betray the Convocation by directly interfering with anything related to Emet-Selch’s quarantine. 

_If he’s still in town and you bid him to aid,_ she had said, _I have a feeling he will be happy to help. He’s clearly the adventurous sort._

She’d been right. Fortunately, he’d still been in Amaurot. When approached by Hythlodaeus, Odysseus had thought the rest locked in the Capital for discussion of an unknown but manageable danger. When informed they were actually in Olimbos, his curiosity had blossomed into conviction to _know_ what they were up to. While he trusted their decisions implicitly (or so it seemed), he wasn’t the kind to lay back and wait. Moreover, Amaurot’s grandeur compared to his hometown had baffled him in ways both good and bad. Most of all, it had increased his desire to understand the root of the differences. 

Y’shtola privately thought he was also an undeniable thrill-seeker. As it worked in their favor and gave him a flare most other Amaurotines seemed to lack, she did nothing to discourage him.

They told him a carefully edited story about their own origins and their world’s future, but he knew enough -- and was smart enough -- to put the dots together. Politely, he did not shatter their illusion of keeping him at a safe arm’s length.

Getting into Olimbos hadn’t been as difficult as Hythlodaeus made it out to be. The facility had few entrances beyond its main doors, and the walls had certainly been covered in wards and runes unknown to the best of them. Once they had found a way into the main lobby without detection -- which was a simple timing trick related to two ever-rotating guards and one bored secretary -- however, it was to their happy surprise that the interior locks and alarms were set to detect aetherial output from an _Amaurotine._ Their aetherial signatures were apparently so far removed from an Amaurotine’s, they could walk in front of black-domed cameras (which Hythlodaeus had taught them about before their venture into Olimbos) without any trouble. 

As the Amaurotines relied consistently on their automated machina, it was criminally easy to get in and move about. Y’shtola almost felt bad about limiting their excursion to herself, Thancred and the Exarch, as Alphinaud and Urianger, at least, would have been delighted to see Olimbos’ sleek, alien insides.

Getting in was easy. Getting out was not. They planned to exit with Emet-Selch in tow, though each of them differed on their bets as to how willing or even able he would be. 

Worse yet: after their disastrous discussion with him, they’d had to hide within one of the side cabinets to avoid detection from _Lahabrea_ , of all people. Y’shtola had spent the entire time crammed against Thancred’s back, the dull side of his gunblade pressed uncomfortably into her stomach, sure they would be detected. The Exarch had established a mental connection with Odysseus before they went in, which he was supposed to use to have him make a distraction when they needed to get out, but the Exarch had no way to tell _them_ that he’d done so.

And so they’d sat in their cramped quarters, and held their breath, and tried not to draw any manner of attention to themselves. Not even as Lahabrea walked about the room, mere fulms away; not even as he _extracted Emet-Selch’s soul_ , which was a role reversal Y’shtola honestly hadn’t expected to ever witness; not even as the extraction process was equal parts horrifying and fascinating to witness through her own specialized vision, as an unbelievable amount of aether was packed tightly into a crystal. Not even as Emet-Selch, for all his words of resignation to his fate, struggled and thrashed in body, mind and spirit against the crystal’s pull.

Having to enact such a process upon his colleague had sufficiently distracted Lahabrea from suspecting a trio of mortals to be lingering nearby, evidently. Thus, in the end, their best tools were their time-tested favorites: time, luck, and a nicely-timed distraction.

They hadn’t had much time to talk between sneaking out of Olimbos, reuniting with Odysseus, and returning to the Tower. The tension was well-deserved: if discovered, they were surely subject to deconstruction, just as Nabriales had all-but-threatened upon their arrival.

“You should probably stay here for a time,” Hythlodaeus told Odysseus bluntly when they all returned and gathered in the Cornice, the fully-rebuilt Tycoon’s home. Fandaniel was the only one not in attendance. When Y’shtola texted to ask her whereabouts (as they really did have limited time), she’d told them she would arrive as soon as possible, but their little stunt had thrown the Convocation for a loop, and she dared not risk leaving them in the state they were.

Odysseus nodded slowly, his soul rippling gently as he reached out a tendril to poke at Hythlodaeus’ outermost edges in a move she had come to understand did _not_ translate to the physical world. Amaurotines constantly engaged in such little tricks of energy and intent. She had to admit, it looked convenient. 

At the same time he asked, equally blunt, “Won’t this Tower be disappearing soon?”

To his point, the towering bulk of the Tycoon slumbered in their midst. It was a grey haze to Y’shtola’s eyes, its vessel filled by design with aether rendered momentarily dormant.

“... Unlikely.” Alphinaud said from where he sat on a pile of coiled wire, next to Urianger. “It hasn’t the requisite energy, since…”

Thancred made a low noise to her left. His frustration radiated off him, such that Y’shtola frowned.

“Since what?” she asked.

Alphinaud wavered in answering her. As a lack of confidence was now quite unusual for him, she attributed it to the barely-contained sadness in his voice. 

“There must be an alternative?” Urianger asked, his voice pitched such that he knew he was being unreasonably optimistic.

“Perhaps, with the proper recalculation…” Hythlodaeus murmured. His energies retracted even further into his already tightly-held core, neatly dodging Odysseus’ curious prodding. Duly chastised, Odysseus pulled back. “But I cannot in good conscience assure you that it will not take all the time we have left, if not more.”

“And we haven’t more,” Urianger finished.

“That Emet-Selch would not depart with you is…” Hythlodaeus trailed off. Devoted as he was to his friend (loyalty she couldn’t entirely respect, as by his own admission, Emet-Selch had changed _drastically_ ), his gloom over Emet-Selch’s apparent desire to rejoin the Lifestream was understandable.

The conversation overall made little sense, however.

Y’shtola felt her tail twitch in vague annoyance. She folded her arms, her frown deepening.

Why were they talking as if…?

 _Ah._ Realization struck as a levinbolt. Immediately, her frown smoothed, her mouth instead dropping open in honest surprise, because-- 

“We _do_ have Emet-Selch’s energy, though,” she hastened to say, hoping to make right an apparent misstep in their team communication. At the surprise she felt hit the air, she turned to Thancred. “Did you not see me grab the crystal?”

“What crystal?” Thancred asked, his bafflement honest.

She shook her head, and swallowed down a laugh. She did not try to stop how her pride fluffed at having pulled a sleight of hand over Thancred, of all people. The Exarch could be rather oblivious, but not he. 

“The white auracite with Emet-Selch’s soul. It had been left on the counter. I grabbed it while you and the Exarch went for the door.”

“I’d been a bit busy with the _door_ ,” Thancred returned, his admiration mixed with his exasperation. Both due to her cleverness, no doubt.

The others were struck by the same levinbolt of realization as her, as they were temporarily silent.

“White auracite?” Odysseus asked, confused. “What is that?”

“His soul was within an _auracite?_ ” Hythlodaeus asked at the same time, his echoing voice pitched higher than usual. “-- No. _Is?_ Then that glow on your hip-- I’d wondered what you’d picked up!”

Understanding rippled through Odysseus at the same time as his inquisitive energies quit their slow investigation of the area around him, instead coiling back to his core with a snap. As if she had one for him!

“How did he get into a white auracite? -- None of you mentioned that part of the story!” Alisaie said.

“It hadn’t seemed relevant,” the Exarch defended, his voice small, “as Emet-Selch would not be joining us, a-and, I, too, had been a tad distracted with escape.”

“What did you think I was doing by the counter? Checking the papers?” Y’shtola pulled the crystal from her pocket, studiously not looking directly at it as she did so. She’d made that mistake before, and it’d left her head dizzy as her senses struggled to comprehend such a tightly-compressed soul. “I cannot read, anymore.”

Hythlodaeus moved with startling speed toward her. She took a reflexive step back, not liking how tendrils of energy whipped about his form.

Agitation. No, more than: anger, perhaps burgeoning fury. He’d never expressed such in their presence. Even when he’d pleaded for them to take care of his friend in a future he didn’t dare hope to see for himself, he’d kept a tight rein on his emotions.

“They put Hades in a _white auracite?_ ” His voice was a low, solid block, its echoing nature solidified into something far older and far darker. “The Convocation has lost their minds and their morality. The _indignity_ \-- give him to me.” And, then, “Please,” an afterthought, a word pressed through clenched teeth.

“ _Emet-Selch_ wasn’t in his usual state of mind,” she replied, and gripped the crystal tight. Its hard, energy-hot edges pressed into her palm. “In fact, it appeared he finally rediscovered his sense of guilt. Unfortunately for us, it drew him into despair, not action. Can a crystal not take his place as a power-source?”

Not a fool, Hythlodaeus understood her meaning immediately. His great soul continued its barely-controlled twisting and turning, but he took a moment to regain control of his voice before again speaking.

“I imagined you would need to march him under protest to his rightful future,” he said, and likely, the jut of energy toward her was his hand outstretched for the crystal, “but I will not syphon his power without his knowledge.”

“Not even if it is the only way to return any of us to where we are meant to be?”

“You know not what he might decide, given the chance--”

“He hoped to die,” the Exarch said then, closer than Y’shtola had thought him. He stood behind and to the side of Hythlodaeus, a mere matchstick compared to the Amaurotine’s inferno. “Here. In Amaurot, surrounded by and in service to his people. An impulse we can scarcely begrudge him,” and this, said as stately as the Exarch could, which after knowing him was not much at all, “as we would all like to do the same, if we must.”

“Though we rarely must,” Alisaie said, pointedly.

“So it has been explained,” in a tone made light.

“-- And this is surely a situation where he must not,” Hythlodaeus said, his voice again pitching high, “for I can hardly imagine a situation which would drive him to such a decision.”

Y’shtola said, evenly, “Truly no offense meant, Hythlodaeus, but mortality does not seem to be naturally within your particular skill set.” 

A prickling began at her fingertips.

She looked down, and saw immediately a tendril of energy from Hythlodaeus to be wrapping around the crystal in her hand. It was as a shadow against the crystal’s concentrated light. Just as she perceived it and realized what it might mean, Hythlodaeus yanked his hand back-- and drew the crystal with the motion, ripping it from her grip and into his own.

“Wait--!” she protested. Realizing in the same breath the futility, she cut her vision and quickly raised her arm to cover her eyes in instinctive protection.

Around them, the room exploded into action and reaction. Odysseus yelped, stumbling back. Alphinaud surged to his feet with a yell to _hold on!_ of his own. By the click of metal, Alisaie and Thancred drew weapons, more from reflex than intent. Urianger, Ryne and the Exarch undoubtedly reacted as well, but theirs were lost under the other’s louder actions.

All for naught, in the face of an Amaurotine on a mission.

Even if she could not see it, she felt it when Hythlodaeus broke the crystal open. Without a hammer of pure aether set against it, the crystal acted as any overburdened container laboring under a newfound crack might: it split in two, its contents pouring forth and crashing as a tidal wave upon their heads.

In a flash, they were drowning.

**. . .**

In an instant, Hades found himself thrust into a harsh waking world with nothing to protect himself from it. 

Shocked, he floundered, twisting and turning about a space too small and too _artificial_ for comfort, the scream of abrupt expansion tearing at his ability to make sense of where, what, when and why he was in the state he was. Unable to resist the need to find a place to rest, his soul dived through webs of aether-- and cringed immediately from the small pieces it encountered around the room, for it knew only that it did not want to collide with them.

In the same moment it comprehended the unfamiliar, it spotted the never-forgotten. And so he crashed full-force into the first thing his aching, surprise-blind soul recognized: Hythlodaeus.

Hythlodaeus’ soul buckled under the pressure, then rebounded-- and would have buckled again, if it did not recognize him back (even as this! even now!) and, to great shock, opened himself to him.

And so, five seconds after the crystal’s breaking, he met Hythlodaeus with neither barrier nor bond between them.

Over the span of a millisecond:

Hades’ confusion abated. _He_ hadn’t expected to wake up again-- true to Lahabrea’s word, being bound in white auracite was like an uncomfortably warm spot to doze-- but Hythlodaeus had. As not yet had there been a world without his friend in it, Hythlodaeus offered an ironclad belief in the rightness of Hades’ presence. Thereupon grounded, Hades found himself with enough regained identity to comprehend Hythlodaeus’ larger intent, the Scions’ presence, and the purpose behind the machina rebuilt. He didn’t accept it, necessarily, but he _understood._

In turn, Hythlodaeus caught upon Hades’ weary edge and understood the origins behind the gashes and gouges, old and fresh, in his soul. Its chaotic dishevelment was recognized and accepted for what it was: the product of a future fully realized. In comparison to Hythlodaeus’ pristine nature and although no less powerful, it was undeniably a mottled monstrosity beyond repair.

But it wasn’t undeserved, and it wasn’t pitiable, and it fit Hades well besides. _That_ , Hythlodaeus believed firmly, and so Hades understood, too: his soul was a product of a future that included a dozen eternities plus a thousand lifetimes, filled with boon, bust, benefit and burden, not least of which was how Hades had overcrowded the Lifestream with not only their brethren, but their brethren’s natural heirs. 

So intertwined, it was impossible to hide thoughts from one another.

And thus, immediately, disgruntlement: _Heirs? Those slivers of soul?_ Rebuff for such a term, even still. _As fit for inheritance as a reflection upon a lake is fit to walk into town and crown itself king._

 _Were our lives as shadows upon a wall, that they might be unable to wound us,_ Hythlodaeus plucked pointedly at threads which contained memories tied to ancient-and-new-and-everything-between names. A child, hair blond and soft as spun silk in the sun; a viera long gone, her quill and tongue equally sharp; a troop of loyal adventurers, feathered wings ready to carry them to new heights. A crystal-bound miqo’te, familiar wrapped in unfamiliarity. _You’ve not escaped these mortals’ impact._

Immediately: bitterness. Resentment. Denial.

And, underneath: despair. Not because Hythlodaeus was right, but because of forgetting. If he let go of his grief and embraced their ways, would he not be leaving them (his people, his origins, his once-and-always home) behind? Marooned in the muck of mortality, their memory would surely fade. If he could not bring them back in the future, if he could not support them in the now, then all was and would be for naught.

Barely had he marched forward this long, and even then only by Zodiark’s relentless guidance. How could he proceed knowing he had failed so utterly and absolutely? He could not. He would not.

Understanding. Sympathy. 

And, underneath that: disdain. Not that Hades had no basis for his worries, but that they were needlessly narrow-sighted, and repulsive besides. 

_If we had our time, Hades,_ Hythlodaeus-- and a small, rapidly expanding part of Hades-- snarled, as their souls and minds mixed in the stretched-out instant of a life-long joining, _and that time came to an end, then to refuse our legacy --_ them: shards on shards, varied and alive and bursting with unknown potential _\-- is to reject our memory._

A cracking. 

_Hythlodaeus_ , Hades entreated, stubborn to a fault and clinging to a piece of Hythlodaeus that knew, that understood, that felt his anguish and did not deny its burn, _how can you say that time--?_

Amaurot, within and without. Souls whole and hale and teeming with Life. 

A realization.

Derailment, tilting their world upon its side.

One millisecond ended. Another began:

 _We took and took and took from our Star,_ Hythlodaeus-Hades noted, both sets of awareness focused on their legacy and their memories and the lack of disease, as predicted, within either of them, even so joined and so once-infected, _and failed to ever give back. We grew endlessly confident in our perceptions and our Creations. If we believed them out of control, or world-ending, frightful and violent--_

_\-- Then so they became._

_We are monsters of our own making._

It was true.

But it did not help in moving forward. So his kin were more flawed than Zodiark had allowed him to remember. _And the mortals are not?_

 _They are, in their own manner,_ because Hythlodaeus saw as Hades did: a Dragonsong war, an Allagan Empire, the rise and fall of nation after nation til no throne existed free of bones and blood, _which makes them quite our equals, indeed. But just as we had our chance to escape our fate, so must they._

Another millisecond. Another, another. A dozen. It grew harder to tell one apart from the other.

 _Why do you care for them so?_ the part-that-was-Hades asked, at last, because Hythlodaeus saw. He knew. He hadn’t lived it, which kept his knowledge on that of an intellectual, but their bond-- at that moment, they were all but merged. So intertwined, the-part-that-was-Hythlodaeus _knew_ as much as any other being in existence who had not lived it could.

And yet. He didn’t want them extinguished.

 _You do, too,_ the part-that-was-Hythlodaeus replied, and turned about on its face: _he_ , Hades, didn’t want them extinguished. He wanted his home back. If it took their extinction, then…

But it wouldn’t bring his home back, would it? A primal would not relinquish its power, let alone devise unto its followers that which made it strong.

And this home, this time--

 _I miss this_ , meaning all of it. _I miss you._

_And I, you. As you were and as you are._

He had to go.

_You must go._

He had done as much as he could for this world he no longer belonged in.

_Come what may._

He would remember them.

 _Keep safe our legacy._ Another string plucked, and: the Shards, their shards, and the Life between. _Make it more than a memory._

Carefully, Hythlodaeus-and-only-Hythlodaeus drew boundaries between one soul and another. Reluctantly, Hades-and-Hythlodaeus allowed it. 

Brief though the joining was, it had been a sensation Hades had not experienced in at least three eternities. Since the Source’s First Calamity, in fact. It had been a rush-job between himself and Lahabrea, borne of Zodiark’s howling desperation to not again condemn a Shard to the Void. A violent clash of two souls put under time’s leaden heel, it was a comparison pale to the security and peace of complete knowing and being known.

Amusement blossomed, tinged with fond annoyance. _Peace?_ The joining had been a whirlwind of chaos to the highest degree. Had Hades expected this union? No. Had Hythlodaeus? Certainly not, _though maybe he should have, if he’d taken the time to not be rash about breaking the crystal._

_That was besides the point._

_Was it?_

_Yes, Hades, it was._ They were lucky they hadn’t merged entirely and lost themselves! 

Even that faint reproach, dashed with warmth, was as a balm. He did not wish to separate and again occupy lonely, restricting flesh. How the mortals managed to go about without ever truly connecting with one another was mystifying. How he himself had gone so long without, such that he forgot to recognize the ache in his core for the yearning it was, was equally unfathomable. 

Bittersweet pity brushed by him, even as Hythlodaeus focused their magics on crafting Hades a vessel which the mortals could conceive.

 _Give the mortals' souls more credit,_ Hythlodaeus-and-only-so said, bemused to the last, _they are more resilient than you think._

He had tried before, to no avail. In fact, to much avail, if the availment were in returning the mortal to the Lifestream.

_Perhaps in your harshness for them and for yourself..._

Was that a slight against his control?

_Remember the importance of perspective, Hades._

Hades understood. Begrudgingly, he agreed to try again. For his reluctance, Hythlodaeus stuck him with a jolt of well-entertained disapproval.

As one final joined act, they drew forth magics from a dying Star to craft a vessel for Hades to occupy. 

Now looking for the signs, it seemed obvious: the Star’s energies, blindlessly joyful in responding to their call, were as congealed dregs at the bottom of a decade-old barrel. It would serve, because it had no choice. Similarly, one day very soon, it would serve no more, and give unto them instead aether stretched beyond its original limitations. Aether corrupted and warped to fulfill their needs as it always had, til even their optimistic-- _arrogant_ \-- minds could not deny that what they Created were in blatant, greedy offensive to the bounty their Star had once offered.

But, that day had not arrived for Amaurot. And so: a second passed outside of their joining, wherein the vessel took form.

Throughout the many, many milliseconds of the next, Hythlodaeus severed their unity piece by agonizing piece. Hades felt each individual red thread binding them snap, and made no effort to help or hinder. Instead, he focused on the feeling, committing this, at least, to memory immemorial. Yet _knowing_ , Hythlodaeus allowed him to without comment.

The vessel was ready. It looked like Solus zos Galvus, though in plain Amaurotine robes. It had, he suspected, an ugly blemish upon its left shoulder in the shape of a wide burn scar.

Hythlodaeus pretended innocence at his unspoken and hither-unto unrealized preference, though the impression of _whistling and walking away_ ruined it. This, Hades tolerated.

The empty vessel called to him. Hythlodaeus’ urged him out, suited as it was for _one_ and not two souls.

One last, thick thread bound them. The first thread to bind them: their kinship, which even after years and years, their souls recognized on first brush.

 _Good-bye, my dearest friend,_ said Hythlodaeus, heart-to-heart.

 _Farewell, my brother,_ Hades replied, soul-to-soul.

The last thread snapped.

**. . .**

Once again, Hades stood alone.

**. . .**

Thoughts sluggish and body heavy, G’raha woke slowly. The first thing he noticed was an extraordinary case of dry mouth. The second thing he noticed was that his left shoulder and upper arm were both exposed to cool air. This led him to discover that he was not on a bed, as he hadn’t blankets to burrow under despite a keen desire for just that. Rather than a comfortable bed, he was on an uncomfortable, high-backed chair. 

When he at last managed to pry open sleep dust-shut eyes, he noticed the reason his arm was chill was because he was in a very familiar red vest and was, instead of blue crystal, covered primarily by pale-pink skin. Til his right elbow and a few spider-web veins of crystal blue thereafter, in fact, he looked nothing short of typical. On his left shoulder was a tattoo most precious that he’d thought lost (and likely, if he were to look into a mirror, another pair were still visible on his neck). His tail, the tip of which twitched idly under his gaze though he certainly didn’t bid it to, had _no_ speckled-in white hairs; and, on quick check to the hair atop his head, it both was much shorter than he had come to like it, and contained only the occasional white tip. 

His crystalized right arm, not to be forgotten, ached in a manner highly reminiscent of his teleportation to the First and again upon their collective arrival to the living Amaurot.

He stared at that right arm for quite a while. As he realized it looked strange because it did not bear the golden bracelets he had too-late realized he shouldn’t have worn during his and the Tower’s trip to the First, his brain hazarded a guess that, _This is not my body._

Then, in swift correction: _This is not my body as I knew it._

That was the third thing he realized.

The fourth was that he sat upon the same throne G’raha Tia had once fallen asleep upon. At the time of his premeditated slumber, crystal had risen to claim him. Now, at this moment, it was just a big, old, crystal-and-golden throne. 

Driven by a fearful impulse deep in his chest, G’raha gathered his wits and scrambled off it.

His heart thudded in his ears. His blood raced through his veins. His chest heaved, and he spun in place, eyes flitting about a room so familiar in feeling and look, but-- but- 

But, no. He knew on first touch that this was the Tower, _his_ Tower. It hadn’t changed, even if he had. 

It welcomed his waking, its presence curling close and happy around him at his slightest brush of contact with its ever-present aether. He knew, as much as he knew anything, that it had used its energies the best it could to effectuate his wish. It hoped him pleased with the result. It hoped also for time to reconfigure itself, because though it had absorbed its younger’s aether and retaken its proper spot upon Hydaelyn, it had several branches and areas in dire need for repair. Curiously, perhaps because the travel had been intentional this time, the Cornice and its master, Alexander, did not appear to be one of them. 

He wasn’t sure how to communicate back with it. The check-in was like reading a status report, and just as one might struggle with telling the paper it had done well, he failed to see how to speak back. Likely it wasn’t even needed, but he was beginning to feel a bit of fondness for his unintentional jailor. 

Or perhaps his bubbling elation was merely boiling over, because _he was back on the Source._ How could he not be pleased?

\-- And that was when the fourth thing struck him. It dashed his growing smile, and set his skin to prickling, anxiety striking sudden and true into his heart.

If it had worked-- if Emet-Selch had spoken true when, restored to his Garlean form, he said he would lend his newly unburdened power-- if Fandaniel’s assertion that she would do the same, and ensure her soul’s passengers traveled with them to the best of her ability (and what more could they do than hope that to be true)- if-- if, if, _if_ it had worked-- 

Where were the others?

“Ah, you’ve awoken. About time.”

G’raha spun on a heel, ears pinned and eyes wide.

Emet-Selch, Amaurotine robes and habitual lofty expression both in place upon him, stood in the doorway. He leaned casually against the threshold, but G’raha thought he saw true exhaustion in the tightened edges of his eyes and mouth. Without a Tower to act as a battery, G’raha supposed it made sense.

Seeing Emet-Selch match the version G’raha had last seen, his hands raised and red magics weaving into the Tycoon’s glowing white power, lightened the tightness in his chest. To his own surprise, a smile twitched up the corner of his mouth. He had no reason to fight it, and so he didn’t.

Emet-Selch’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

G’raha strode quickly toward him, finding energy he hadn’t known he’d had. 

It’d worked. It not only worked, they were back on the _Source._ He was-- he was himself! The Scions must have returned to their bodies, too, and the Warrior of Light to hers, and-- the First was safe, its Lightwarden safely _dimensions_ away, and… the Light must have dissipated, too, somehow. Fandaniel would’ve mentioned otherwise.

A shame he couldn’t hug her in thanks. He wasn’t usually the hugging type, but the happiness under his skin -- his largely crystal-less skin! -- certainly demanded nothing less.

“What is it?” He asked once he stopped at Emet-Selch’s side, his small smile a full beam up at their turncoat Ascian. “Don’t you dare say ‘my face.’ That’s too obvious, even for you.” 

“If ever I am so trite, know I am no longer who I claim to be.” The scrutinizing glint in his eyes eased as G’raha neared him. Though he did not return G’raha’s smile, he relaxed, leaning more heavily against the door’s ornate frame. 

G’raha had been right about the exhaustion, apparently. But of course: he had not only lent the full credence of his powers to the Tower. He had done so expressly to leave the home he’d been all-too-ready to die for. 

That he and Hythlodaeus had some sort of talk had been obvious upon Hythlodaeus’ immediate crafting of an appropriate vessel and the deluge of swirling energy that marked Emet-Selch’s soul had poured itself into it. More telling were the glances shared between the two at every step of their preparation to return, though Emet-Selch was as prone to avoiding Hythlodaeus’ gaze as he was to meet it head-on. 

When Fandaniel had teleported in -- _hurry,_ she’d begged, _we must hurry, or I daresay the Tower is likely to catch fire, such a fury has Hades set upon our city--_

 _And how are you able to aid us, anyway?_ Emet-Selch had told her either he or Hythlodaeus would be able to explain, depending on the Tycoon’s success. 

That succinct statement spoke more to his quietly renewed will to live than anything else. 

As none of it mattered if they failed to escape back to their time, they’d been forced to accept what they were told. The Scions weren’t happy about it, and in truth, neither was G’raha -- the conversation with Emet-Selch at Olimbos had been unpleasant, to say the least -- but they had a goal to work on. 

They had set to work.

And it hadn’t been for naught.

A laugh rose in G’raha’s throat. He couldn’t help it: he let it out, a small chuckle that felt loud as a yell, so long had it been since he’d honestly indulged in such joy. From the same place burst forth, “We succeeded! Can you believe it?” 

“Truthfully? No.” G’raha expected him to scoff or rage, or otherwise indulge in the darker emotions that so often buzzed beneath his calm exterior. He didn’t. Instead, he pushed himself off the door frame and brought his hand to his temples, squeezing here as he wracked his mind in saying, “We woke an hour or so prior. Myself and… What’s her name. Hydaelyn’s reformed vessel. Was she once blonde, or was that a different friend of yours?”

“Ryne’s here?” And she’d been left alone for some time ( _a bell’s worth,_ Hythlodaeus had taught them) with Emet-Selch-- who had, apparently, remained with her. A small part of G’raha worried for blood upon tile and Thancred’s retaliation, but that small part extinguished itself fairly quickly. “Where?”

“The kitchen. We found you,” Graha didn’t ask how long it took, or what else they might have stumbled into while they did so, “but no other. Seeing you, she thought they might be back in their original bodies as well, and I am tempted to agree.”

“They’ll be in Revenant’s Toll.” At Emet-Selch’s blank look, G’raha continued, “In Mor Dhona. If we are when I believe we are, it’s the Scions’ current headquarters. If they weren’t kept there while they were… indisposed, we’ll find people who know where they are.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Emet-Selch turned then, heading down the stairs from the secondary throne room, better known as the primary control room. “How far is that from where we are now?”

G’raha took that to mean teleporting was, for whatever reason, temporarily unavailable. For the sake of Emet-Selch’s pride (and wasn’t _that_ a new sentiment?), he didn’t pry.

“Not far at all,” he instead replied cheerfully, stepping quickly to keep even with Emet-Selch’s longer stride. He would not trail along behind if he could help it. “In fact, it’s just down the way.”

“By an adventurer’s standard, or a normal person’s?” grumbled Emet-Selch, his slouch deepening already. “Relative to our passage of time, this body was born today. I’d like to not drive it into the ground just yet.”

Footsteps light and heart lighter, G’raha again chuckled. His right arm felt afire, yes, his body aching beyond belief, and in truth, he had not the strength to fight his way through the Labyrinth and to Revenant’s Toll, but-- Twelve above, he felt like he could. Once they reached the kitchen and collected Ryne, he’d make certain to stop at the Ocular and see what his viewing screen could show them of their surroundings (or better yet, the Warrior of Light’s location!), and they could go from there. They’d make it work. The Calamity wasn’t impending; the First, including _Lyna_ , was safe; and, most of all, they were home. Emet-Selch, by choice, included.

“... Exarch,” Emet-Selch said, sounding somewhat discomforted, “are you well?”

“Better than well,” he replied truthfully, puzzled at the other’s tone but not overly concerned. His vision blurred briefly, and he hastened to blink it away.

“You’re crying,” was the blunt reply.

He touched his left hand to his smooth, unblemished cheek, beneath eyes red in iris and edge. When he pulled his fingers away, they glistened. Well. That explained the blurry vision, didn’t it.

“So I am.” And his face ached, for that and his smile. “I have you in part to thank for that, I guess.”

A short, confused pause. Then, with reluctant honesty, his voice quieter than G’raha recalled it being, “I suppose you do. I’d rather you didn’t mention it.”

“All the same,” more blurriness, more rapid blinking, til he had to rub at one eye lest he risk running into a wall, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” came the eventual, hushed reply. “Do try not to waste the opportunity.”

“Nor you,” G’raha replied instantly, his grin and voice watery.

Though he did not reply, Emet-Selch slowed his pace. Even as he tried to stifle a sniffle, G’raha pretended it wasn’t for his benefit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Join me at [twitter](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) if you like. :]
> 
> Wow, there sure are a lot of unanswered questions, huh. If you're into FF or Square generally, you must recognize the pain of an open ending...
> 
> ... But that sounds awful, eh! Part 2, Anabasis, is already mostly written and will be uploaded soon, so keep an eye out if you enjoyed this story. :D The rating will rise to E, for those wondering when we venture out of the pre-slash land.


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